The Splendid Joy of the Stars
by sammac
Summary: Five years after taking command of the Enterprise and then going blind, Kirk's career sits in the hands of a Starfleet committee. He's been given one ally in his quest to become the Fleet's first blind line officer, but it might not be enough. Maybe one last run-in with the Romulans will make the case that Kirk belongs on the Enterprise? Please read As Hours Pass first. AU
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

 **Author's Note: This novel assumes that the events in _As Hours Pass_ happened during the _Enterprise_ 's second assignment, shortly after _Where No Man Has Gone Before_.**

* * *

Jim has been blind for precisely 4 years, 11 months, and 3 days, plus an undefinable number of hours, minutes, and seconds. Even after all these years, I find that undefinable period unsettling. Owing to that very quality, it has become a landmark for me, a temporal beacon forever orienting me. It is how I tell time.

Jim does not mark the time so precisely. "Four and a half, going on five years now, I guess," is how he measures the same period. We discussed the topic six days ago, and that was his response. "I don't know exactly. I'm not keeping count."

When I pointed out the illogic posed by his lack of regard for such a seminal event in his own life, he merely answered with the same smile he uses to charm the other crew members and said, "I'll let keeping count be your responsibility." (People believe this charm is lost on me. It is not. It is duly noted, catalogued, appreciated. Jim knows this.)

"You need to take a rain check tonight, Spock?" he asks now. We are already more than two hours into a chess game.

"That would be highly illogical, since the _Enterprise_ is incapable of manufacturing inclement weather outside of the hydroponics lab and arboretum. Why do you ask?"

Ignoring my attempt at humor, Jim waves a hand toward the multi-tiered chess board between us. "Because I'm just killing time here until you show up." He then gestures toward the vast collection of metal pawns on his side of the desk. "If you're otherwise engaged somewhere, I don't mind taking a rain check."

That after such a short time he already possesses three-quarters of my pieces demonstrates a clear lack of opposition. "My apologies. I have not posed a very formidable adversary tonight."

He shrugs. "It's not the game I'm concerned about." He inclines his head, eyes shut. "Come on, Spock. What gives?"

"Unknown."

Rising to fetch a container of water, he carries it into his bedroom to water the plants there. Jim moves with the same confidence and ease he had before, looking now with fingers and ears rather than with eyes. It is at once gratifying and distressing to realize that this is the case. "Unknown," he asks, "or unwilling to tell me?"

I bow my head, vainly—illogically—attempting to hide my shame by avoiding eye contact where none exists. Not only can Jim no longer make eye contact, but it is a rare occasion now when he even attempts it with one of his shipmates, and even rarer still with me. With his shipmates—in his most relaxed state, as now—he relies instead on ear contact, and by observing where his ear is pointed I am nearly always quite accurate in gauging what he is attending to. Hence, my head is now bowed because I do not wish to see that he is watching me. It is the closest I can come to preserving my dignity. Eye contact is voluntary and can be easily revoked by shifting the eyes, thus allowing both parties an element of privacy even when in one another's company. This is not the case with ear contact, which is completely involuntary because ears, unlike eyes, are omnidirectional. Blindness has stolen that social convention from us, like so many others.

"Spock—"

"Possibly an element of both." It is untrue that Vulcans cannot lie—merely that I am unwilling to lie to this particular Human. "I do not recall precisely what thought or event caused my distraction, nor did I intend to disturb your evening with my misgivings. I had resolved, after our last such discussion, to tend to these affairs myself without intruding upon you further."

"What happened during our last discussion to make you resolve that? Did I say something?"

"No." The very suggestion provokes an unexpected twinge of panic, and I hear the pinch of it in my voice. The remainder of my response is better modulated. "My apologies if that appeared to be my meaning. On the contrary, you have always been most tolerant with me."

Jim shrugs. "What, then?" Laying aside the watering vessel, he feels the overall shape and growth pattern of the large palm in the corner and squats to rotate its back toward the light. He then repeats this process for the smaller plant on his sideboard: water, evaluate, rotate. "Something I did?"

"Negative. My resolution was not based on anything that you said or did, nor anything that I may have surmised you to be thinking or feeling. It was based solely on my perception that I have troubled you too many times already with different iterations of the same conversation."

Presently, his troubled expression clears and an amused smile flickers across his face. "And who decides what constitutes the proper number of times we should have his conversation? You, because it's your pride we're trying to preserve? Me, because I'm at the heart of the issue? Some imaginary social norm? Spock, as far as I can tell this isn't an issue we can ever completely resolve because the blindness is always going to be here. We're always going to have lost something. I think it's something we have to keep negotiating."

His choice of words surprises me. "I had not considered that this was a negotiation process, but I suppose that it does bear some resemblance."

"Actually, I was thinking of the other meaning—more like negotiating a maze."

"Ah. That does indeed seem an apt comparison." If he is correct about this experience being essentially labyrinthine, it is imperative that we continue to travel it together or else we will become irreparably separated. That would suggest that these conversations are, and will continue to be, an essential part of our relationship. "In that case, I perceive that you have progressed further into the maze than I have."

"Oh? How so?"

"Changes no longer trouble you."

"Probably because I'm losing the reference point." He shrugs. "The more time that passes, the harder it is for me to remember what exactly 'before' was like."

"That does indeed explain the problem: you have turned a corner of which I was unaware." The presence of that corner disturbs me. If the only way to turn it is to forget, are we destined to become separated at this juncture? I choose my words carefully. "Jim, do you think it possible—likely, even—that I may be unable to turn the same corner? As a Vulcan, my memory—"

He shakes his head. "Of course not. It isn't that I can't still look back; I can. It's just that it's getting harder—and the payoffs when I do are getting smaller—so I mostly choose not to."

"Do I understand that you have made a deliberate choice to forget?"

"Not exactly." When Jim says that this experience is one that we must continually negotiate, this is his negotiation process. His words are deliberate, slow, chosen not more than one at a time. If this experience is a labyrinth, he is moving one step at a time—hand over hand, palming the walls of his own experience—in an effort to ensure that he negotiates it accurately, as if he perceives this to be a critical point. "What I make is a deliberate choice not to keep trying to hold onto what used to be. Forgetting is more like an act of mercy after I've let go."

My mind skips to a story my mother once told me when I was small. I had asked whether she missed the life she once had on Earth. She responded by relaying to me a story from the Old Testament: that of Lot's wife. When commanded to flee her home to avoid impending destruction and to do so without looking back, she disobeyed and looked back and was changed to a pillar of salt. _I've often thought that it wasn't the actual looking back that was so harmful_ , Mother told me. _It was the longing that destroyed her._ I grasp now what my mother was trying to tell me all those years ago. Given the salty nature of Human tears, I should have understood the symbolism long before now.

"Does that make any sense, Spock?"

"It does." Despite the saltless nature of my Vulcan tears, I have been—or have come dangerously close to becoming—a pillar of salt, not outwardly but inwardly where my Human genes remain quite strong. "I believe my mother attempted to make a similar point many years ago, when I was a child. I have just now grasped her, and your, meaning."

He nods. "Your mother is a wise woman. If my solutions end up resembling her advice, I take that as an enormous compliment."

"I shall tell her you said so."

Jim has now fetched a second container of water and begun watering the enormous bromeliad that sits near his door, fingers testing first the soil and then the collection tray beneath the pot. When it is sufficiently moist, he reaches up to take stock of the plant's overall growth pattern. Eventually, he tilts his face toward the overhead light and turns his head, using his skin to detect where the concentration of heat is greatest. He then rotates the bromeliad so that the undergrown back side is aligned with that same concentration of heat. Satisfied that his adjustments will ensure the plant's even growth, he stands and returns the watering vessel to the shelf where it belongs.

I watch this as if with new eyes. For the first time, I see Jim as he is now—truly see him, all ears and fingers and skin—and do not wince or shrink back from it. Instead, this time I see the extraordinariness of it. That five years ago he should have existed in an entirely other body, and that in this short of a time he should have become so completely comfortable in this one, is truly a remarkable feat. For the first time, I feel no regret over the body that was left behind those five years ago. Instead, I feel pride in what Jim has accomplished in this comparatively short space of time; I feel admiration for the practical way that he has approached living with this new body.

If this experience is a maze, then I have just turned a corner and found my old friend once again in sight. He is somehow larger than I remember.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

 _Captain's Log, Stardate 5618.3: We have received the final assignment of our five-year mission—the transport of construction materials from Starbase 13 to the colony at Delta Kappa Six. After that, the_ Enterprise _will return to Earth and undergo an extensive refit. Mr. Scott informs me that he has completed work on prototypes for several new pieces of equipment that need to be tested before we return home. A vastly improved tactile viewscreen is among the most critical pieces slated for testing._

 _In actual fact, it is unclear whether or not I will be allowed to retain command of the_ Enterprise _—or any other ship—beyond the end of the current mission. I was allowed to retain command after the loss of my vision only with the oversight of a handler, Commodore Ethan Tucker. Commodore Tucker has now submitted a thorough performance report to the Personnel Oversight Committee, on which sit six of Starfleet Command's highest-ranking flag officers. They will decide whether I am allowed to retain command or whether I should be reassigned to a staff position. My understanding is that a move to staff officer would most likely be accompanied by a promotion to admiral—an option that I do not relish._

"Commander Scott entering." Instead of heading toward the engineering station, Scotty heads for the port steps and stops alongside the command chair. He holds something out in front of me. "Captain? At your leisure, sir."

My signal transmitters are off at the moment, so I click my tongue and listen to the signal slide around the thing's contours. I reach for the nearest edge and recognize it as the new tactile viewscreen prototype. Whereas the old model was housed in a standard PADD that Scotty modified for braille output, the new one boasts a new design altogether. It has a larger display surrounded by a thinner, rounded-edge polymer border with a magnetic stylus port in one corner. It's still a PADD, but I like its aesthetics much better. "You built this from scratch. How did you get it done so fast?"

"There's no choice, sir. We want it integrated into the armrests of the new command chair, so it has to be tested and approved before we get back to Earth."

"We don't even know that the chair is going to be mine after the refit."

"Aye, sir, it'll be yours. Starfleet will make the right decision, and I want to show the Committee that this time we're fully prepared for you."

"I appreciate your optimism, Mr. Scott."

The old tactile viewer used electronic pulse technology to translate images from the main viewscreen into line drawings, using stronger and weaker pulses to indicate depth. The images were nothing more than animated low-resolution sketches. The new viewer features an amorphous solid display that raises high-resolution three-dimensional images sturdy enough to withstand my touch, which should make them more like moving sculptures. And for the first time I'll be able to adjust the magnification level independent of the main viewscreen.

Only one feature has been carried over from the original tactile viewer to the new model: the sensory substitution program, which allows me to smell colors instead of seeing them. And even that has been expanded. The original program was limited to ten basic colors: white, black, brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and pink. The new program can render shades and a more specific range of hues: gold instead of yellow, peach instead orange, cream instead of white. I never paid attention to those distinctions when I could see, but I've definitely noticed their absence.

"I guess I'd better start testing, then."

"Aye, sir. There's no time like the present."

I push the stylus in until it clicks, then palm the right side of the screen to activate the viewscreen connection. Individual points of white light appear underneath my fingertips and turn into lines rushing toward the edges of the screen, only to disappear and be replaced by new points and more streaks. The sight of it sucks my breath away. My old screen didn't have the resolution or the processing speed to show the moving star-field to any great effect.

"Captain, we're receiving a secure subspace communication from someone on board the _USS Carolina_ , but I'm not receiving any identifying information."

Needing another few seconds to clear my head, I nod and motion toward the main viewscreen, meaning for Uhura to put the call through.

"Go ahead, Captain."

Underneath my fingertips, a man's head and upper torso replace the moving starfield. "This is Captain Kirk. To whom am I speaking?"

"Good morning, Captain. It's Commodore Tucker."

Although Tucker and I have talked often enough and I've seen him on the old viewer, I don't recognize his face. The overall shape is the same—oval face, broad forehead, square jaw—but my recognition of those features hangs on his voice. Faces felt bear little resemblance to faces seen, even with the addition of more details: light brown hair swept back from a high forehead; small eyes disproportionate to the nose; high cheeks and a few light wrinkles around the eyes, nose, and mouth. "Good morning, Commodore." In certain situations, though, there could be some practical benefit to having access to this level of facial detail. I drop my pinky finger down to check for the gold of his command uniform, then spread my fingers to watch a few key areas: overall head position, eyes, mouth. "You're not calling from your office. Is that significant?"

Tucker's head tilts to one side, and in the instant before he opens his mouth I realize he isn't going to answer. "You sound distracted. Are you all right, Captain?"

The detail now underneath my fingertips gives me my first clear picture of what he looks like. His face is stocky and rounded but not fat, his eyebrows thin and arched. It's still just a collection of details, largely unimportant and not something I would recognize again if I saw it without the cue of his voice, but on an instinctive level I like it. "My apologies. We just started testing the new tactile viewer with the amorphous solid display a minute or two ago."

His eyebrows jump, displacing some of the skin on his forehead and adding wrinkles to the crease that was there before. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Captain. Based on your reaction, I'm guessing the new display must be an improvement?"

Lately I've found myself struggling to remember that other people can see my facial expressions. Having access to their facial expressions via the tactile viewer might make it easier for me to remember that. "Better than I could ever have expected."

"And just to be clear—This is the same device mentioned in your meeting report from last week, the one whose design you were just finalizing?"

"That's right."

"I've never seen a crew that works as fast as yours, Captain."

"That's part of what makes them the best in the Fleet." The ability to anticipate other people's responses by their body language is also something I'd nearly forgotten. It's like stretching a long-unused limb—the joints creak, achy muscles pull taut, but all the parts still essentially remember what to do. "With all due respect, Commodore, you didn't answer my question. Should I read something into the fact that you're calling from a starship?"

He laughs. "Aside from the fact that Starfleet finally let me out of my cage? Yes, you should. I'll be meeting you at Starbase 13 in about 10 hours."

"In that case, I'm glad you called. We're slightly ahead of schedule—we'll be arriving in closer to 7 hours now—but we'll wait for you."

"Thank you. I'll ask Captain Carmichael if she can get the _Carolina_ there any sooner than 10 hours, but I can't make any promises. We're already pushing faster than she wanted to go."

"It's all right if we have to wait a few hours. It'll take a while to get the cargo loaded, and the timeline for the actual delivery is flexible within half a day or so after we receive it. I'm sure the crew wouldn't mind a few extra hours of shore leave. It's certainly not worth you crossing Samantha Carmichael."

"You know her?"

"We were in the same class at the Academy. Certainly not a woman whose bad side I'd want to be on."

"Then you'll understand if I don't push too hard."

"You're a wise man, Commodore. To what do we owe this visit?"

"When we first started working together, you'll remember that I promised to always be honest with you, on the condition that you returned the favor?"

"Of course, and we have been."

"I know you have, and now it's my turn to uphold my end of the bargain."

"I'm listening."

"The Committee has my report, but the vote is still split. They need more information to break the stalemate, so they've hand-selected your final assignment and asked me to do an in-person evaluation."

"What are they looking for?"

"They want a detailed account of how you manage an assignment from start to finish, including any excerpts from the ship's log that I feel to be relevant or illustrative of my point. That said, I'll need you to wait until I arrive to take possession of the cargo."

Having Starfleet brass on board never seems to go well, so I hope I don't look—or sound—as dismayed as I feel. "Sulu, slow to warp 2."

"Slowing to warp 2. New ETA to Starbase 13: 10 hours, 13 minutes."

"Uhura, update Starbase 13 with our new ETA. Let them know that we'll pick up our cargo as soon as possible after we arrive, and apologize for the delay."

"Yes, sir."

Tucker sighs. "I'm sorry, Captain. I assure you, the report I submitted to the Committee was positive. I see absolutely no reason that you shouldn't be left in command; frankly, you're the kind of officer that should be on the front lines. I guess we just have to fight a little harder."

"News that I'm facing an uphill battle is no news, Commodore. We both know that, and you certainly don't need to apologize for it. We'll meet you at the station."

"As a courtesy, Captain—since this is wasn't originally lined out as part of your performance evaluation—I asked if I could send you the list of items that the Committee specifically wants evaluated, but they refused."

"It makes no difference, Commodore. I always operate at my best—I can't afford to do any less—so seeing the list wouldn't have changed anything."

"If you would, Captain, have your communications officer save the last 30 seconds of this conversation to a data card for me."

"Lieutenant, you heard him."

"Yes, sir, Commodore. I'll set that aside for you."

"Thank you. You're a good man, Captain, and you have a good crew. I'll be in touch when we get closer to Starbase 13."

"Understood. Kirk out."

Tucker's face disappears, replaced with more stars streaking by at a now slightly slower speed. Leaving my fingers on the moving star field just because I'll never get tired of seeing that view, I shift my attention to the atmosphere right here on the bridge. "Somebody say it."

Looming directly behind my left shoulder like bad karma, Bones doesn't waste any time. "What do you suppose the Committee's looking for? They assigned the man to do a job, and he did it."

"Maybe they think we're glossing over the imperfections in our reports, exaggerating the good parts. They could just be double-checking that I am as fit as our reports say I am. I have nothing to hide."

"No, I know. But what if they're not just double-checking? What if there's nothing in any report that can convince them?"

"Anybody ever tell you that you can't win the what-if game, Bones?" I shake my head at him. "Better not to play."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. It just makes me nervous."

"It shouldn't. As long as we haven't lost our objectivity—as long as I really am as capable as we all claim—justice will come. The day I stop trusting that Starfleet is run by essentially good people is the day I willingly walk away from this chair and what it stands for."

Bones snorts. "What makes you think any of us are capable of being objective after five years cooped up together in this tin can?"

"The fact that as a Vulcan, Spock is completely devoted to unemotional logic. I'm trusting that if we'd lost our objectivity, he would have said something by now."

Spock finally steps down from his station to stand beside the command chair, so close that I can actually feel his presence in the air beside me. "You are correct, Captain. I would have failed in my duty to Starfleet, as well as to you and to this ship, if I neglected to address any apparent lack of competence on your part."

I know for a fact that he would have questioned my abilities because he did it frequently in the early days, weeks, and months following my vision loss. Unlike the other 429 people on board this ship, Spock was not a natural believer in my ability to remain an effective starship captain. I may have been able to bluff everyone else—or else they were willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, which is more likely the case—but not Spock. He questioned everything, argued, doubted. Everyone else on this ship might have let me slide by, but Spock made me prove myself.

"And now that we've reached the end, how did I stack up?"

"There has been a 23.18% loss of efficiency in ship's operation since the onset of your blindness. However, 8.94% of that loss was incurred in the first three months following the incident, during which you were learning and adjusting."

"And if we don't include those three months?"

"If one does not include your rehabilitation period, the statistic rises to only a 14.24% loss of efficiency. From the second to the fifth year removed from the incident, each year sees an additional rise in efficiency, averaging 1.93% per year, although the trend appears to have begun stabilizing within the past year."

"I see. And what are we currently operating at?"

"We are currently operating at 6.52% loss of efficiency, as compared with your efficiency rating during the brief period between assuming command of the _Enterprise_ and the loss of your vision."

"Not too bad, I'd say."

"Indeed not. Also, these numbers do not take into account any improvements in efficiency provided by the new equipment which is slated for trial during the course of our upcoming mission. And as has already been demonstrated by your current trial, those gains may prove to be substantial."

"Aye, and I'll have the new object recognition and reading programs ready for trial by the time we reach Starbase 13, if not a wee bit sooner. Those should provide as much improvement in efficiency as the tactile viewscreen and PADD."

"Perfect. Thank you, Scotty. You've outdone yourself."

"Ach, 'tis my pleasure, Captain."

"If that proves to be the case, it is my estimation that we will be operating within 5% of your efficiency rating pre-blindness."

"If you haven't already, Spock, would you document all this? Committees always respond well to numbers, and I want to build a case of my own, just in case it becomes needed."

"Certainly, Captain. Should also include statistics on safety or—"

"No, just the efficiency bit. I'll provide the safety bit myself; I know those numbers by heart."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Bones asks.

"Safety is a captain's number one priority. Keeping tabs on my own safety rating is the way I measure whether or not I still have a right to sit in this chair."

"And?"

"And there have been 0 deaths and 0 serious injuries directly related to my vision loss, and only 2 minor injuries directly related, both within the first three months. There have been a total of 54 crew deaths over the course of our five-year mission. Most of those who died were security guards participating in landing parties, a duty that is widely held to be the most dangerous in Starfleet. Those numbers are commensurate with the number of crew deaths under both previous captains of the _Enterprise_ and also commensurate with the safety ratings on other _Constitution_ -class starships. We have higher numbers than some but considerably lower numbers than others, leaving us squarely in the center and holding steady."

"Holding steady. It hasn't improved the way your efficiency rating has?"

"No. Nor would I expect it to, because my safety rating has nothing to do with my vision loss. It has to do with my command style, and that's stayed the same."

McCoy answers by clapping my shoulder, then backs away from the command chair to watch from the bridge's upper level, a few feet away.

I slide my hand sideways across the PADD's screen, switching from the viewscreen to the document viewer to see if I have any messages relating to Tucker's arrival. Instead, all I find are a half-dozen section reports that need my signature.

"Got anything?" McCoy asks.

"Just more paperwork for Tucker to review." Copies of all the reports that we generate here on the ship are sent to Tucker for his perusal. How he wades through all of it is beyond me. "I guess now's as good a time as any to test the new document reader. If it's even half as good as the viewer, I should be able to finish long before we reach Starbase 13."

Uhura turns away from her console to watch me. "Captain, the new PADD has already raised your efficiency rating. You didn't have to wait for me to upload your reports to it."

The new PADD communicates with the computer automatically, so for the first time in five years I'll be able to manage the ship's paperwork without burdening Uhura with it. "I want you to know, Lieutenant, that I do appreciate how much extra work you've had to do up to this point."

Uhura had just transferred on board with McCoy and a handful of others when I first lost my vision. She had no special loyalty to me at the time. When keeping me in the command chair made her job more complicated than it should have been, she could have complained to Starfleet or requested a transfer. But she didn't.

"Well, it's a small price to pay for getting to keep you in that chair, sir. I'll do it for the rest of my career, if they'll let me."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate that. But hopefully now you'll get to have one without the other."

The new PADD's design has one other improvement. Meant to be held horizontally rather than vertically, it allows documents to be formatted in braille the same way they're formatted in print. That wasn't possible on the standard vertically-oriented PADD because braille takes up more space than print. The new design almost doubles the amount of available space.

"Captain," Chekov says, "there is also another efficiency improvement."

"Oh? What's that, Ensign?"

"No one has had to stop what they were doing to chase down your stylus."

As much as I hate admitting it, he's right. That may be the biggest improvement of all in terms of the ship's overall efficiency rating. How a triangular stylus can roll so easily is something I'll never understand. That's why Scotty built a port into the new design.

"Yes. Thank you, Ensign. Spock, you'll be sure to include that in your computations?"

"I have already done so, Captain, and I project that to be one of the greatest efficiency gains of the new design."

"Scotty, I think your design is a hit."

"Aye, sir, I thought that part might be."

I'm a few lines into the cartography section's report when Bones grunts. Leaving my fingers on the text so I don't lose my place, I raise my eyebrows at him. "What?"

"I just realized how fast you read now. I'm not sure if that says more about how much faster you've gotten or how long it's been since I paid attention."

Scotty huffs. "You should give him the credit, Doctor. He reads about as fast as most print readers I know—myself included."

"Same here. And just for reference, Jim, that's no easy feat."

"No?"

"Your average braille reader reads considerably slower than your average print reader, and it's been that way pretty much since braille was invented." McCoy's knowledge of blindness comes from having a blind mother who studied the development of multisensory perception. I couldn't have asked for a better teacher if I'd hand-picked him expressly for that purpose.

"My friend Baldie reads maybe a wee bit faster—" Scotty's voice rises a little, then drops abruptly, the vocal equivalent of a shrug. "—but everybody always said that's because he was born with one hand on a book."

I laugh because Gary Mitchell once referred to me as a stack of books with legs. I've always been an avid reader, although not an especially fast one. Starships run on paperwork, so I get plenty of practice every day, but I spend a lot of personal time with my fingers on books too. There's something satisfying about drawing words off of a page, resurrecting the thoughts of someone who may have lived hundreds or thousands of years ago on another world.

"Gentlemen, I would point out that the captain is not currently reading at his fastest speed. I have observed him reading as much as 28% faster on more than one occasion."

I'm ordinarily good at multitasking, but that figure jerks my thoughts away from the cartography report. "Twenty-eight percent, Spock?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

"I don't like reading that fast—I prefer to take my time and think about what I'm reading—but I know I can. I didn't realize it was that much, though." I gesture from Scotty to Bones, both of whom jointly took on the task of teaching me braille. "If I've learned better than most people, it's because I had two excellent teachers."

"I'd say thanks, but a teacher's only as effective as his student. You're the one who logged all the practice hours."

"Aye, you did all the hard work, sir; we had the easier job by far. But I suppose you're welcome anyhow."

Spock has already read and signed off on reports by the time they come to me, so I know they're accurate. Accordingly, I skim the general content of the report and focus primarily on finding the signature fields at the bottom. Spock's is just above mine, the first and last letters of his signature recognizable by touch despite the small size of the field. "Been a while since I saw your signature, Spock. It's been so long I don't even recognize your handwriting."

"That is to be expected, given how many years have passed."

Coming to the place where my signature is needed, I pull the stylus free of its port, leaving my left index finger to mark where I stopped reading and to double-tap the screen. That momentarily masks all of the document's text except for the one word directly underneath my finger: _signature_. Without any other text on the screen, I can sign anywhere and any size and the PADD will do the work of resizing and moving it to fit into the space _._ Once I'm through signing, I double-tap again and the rest of the document reappears; I dock the stylus again before it gets away from me.

"That was certainly an improvement," Scotty says. On the old PADD, I had to fit my signature within the limits of a field, and it almost always took several tries.

The stardate field also requires input, but this time I don't have to print. When I double-tap the field label, the bottom of the screen raises to form a ten-key braille keyboard. It only takes me a few seconds to type in the current stardate and a few more to skim back over the text to double-check what I wrote. Then I double-tap again, eliminating the keyboard, and send the whole thing directly to Uhura's station.

"Jim, you're done already? Even with us talking at you?"

"I don't know how long it took, but it felt a lot faster and it was certainly easier."

"A significant improvement indeed. You completed that report with a time savings of 3.28 minutes. Compounded across multiple reports, that should provide a significant relief to your work load."

"The best part was not having to hand-write the stardate. I know that saved at least a minute or more." It's been so long now since I saw print that I have trouble remembering how the letters and numbers need to be oriented for the text recognition program to work.

"Aye, we should have done this a few years ago, when you first started struggling. That's what complacency buys you, I suppose."

"Well, we've had a few other problems on our plates. It's all right. Now's the perfect time for innovating."

"Better late than never, aye."

Scotty may have physically constructed the PADD, but he and McCoy both collaborated on its exact function and design. "This is an incredible design—a huge improvement, both in time-savings and in eliminating frustration. Good work and thank you, both of you."

I owe them both an equal debt of gratitude, and not just for their work on this new PADD. I owe the two of them my career. No amount of hard work on my part could ever have gotten me to this particular place without their input. McCoy understood how to reshape perception, and Scotty brought to the table an intimate familiarity with the mechanics of blindness, gained by a childhood spent with a best friend who was born blind. Starfleet couldn't have assigned me a better pair of teachers. I may have had the determination to put all the pieces together quickly, but without them to provide those pieces, that determination would only have left me frustrated.

In the routine quiet that settles over the bridge while I skim and sign reports, Spock retreats to his station. I owe him a different debt, the depth of which I'm not sure he appreciates. While the other two have kept me fueled—with information, with aids, with possibilities—Spock has thrown water on the fire. It hasn't always been pleasant. But more than once he's single-handedly kept the fire from burning out of control, and for that I owe him my eternal gratitude—and probably also my career.

Unfortunately, Spock is as blind to that particular gratitude as I am to light, and I don't know that his type is curable either.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

"Captain, it looks like the _Carolina_ is just arriving too." Easing the _Enterprise_ toward her assigned dock at Starbase 13, Sulu grunts. "If I didn't know any better, sir, I'd says she's trying to race us into port."

"Sounds like Sam Carmichael, all right. She still must not have figured out that there's no glory in winning a race no one else is running."

Sulu chuckles. "Yes, sir. Steady as she goes."

"Good man, Lieutenant."

Within a few minutes, we're docked and I'm headed for the transporter room with my new PADD. Once I meet with the station's portmaster to sign for the cargo—that shouldn't take more than a few minutes—we can take possession of the materials and be underway. If we're here more than a few hours, I'll be surprised.

Materializing on the starbase's transporter platform, I slide my cane over the edge and jog down to the main level. I've just started heading toward the door when movement reveals someone sitting in a lounge chair several meters away.

He stands, then calls out to me: "Captain."

"Commodore." I smile at Tucker from across the room and alter my course to intercept him. Although I initially had misgivings about working with a handler, I've come to like and respect him over the years. More than that, I trust him. "It's good to finally meet you in person."

I trust him because he's presented himself as my ally rather than attempting to actually handle me. Any reservations I have about him coming on board stem not from Tucker himself but from the _Enterprise_ 's history with having staff officers on board. The one hope that I have for avoiding similar problems this time is the fact that Tucker has read all of my reports about those incidents.

"The same here." Stepping forward to accept my handshake, he scuffs his right foot and nearly trips over it. But before I can ask if he's all right, he grabs my hand and pumps it as if nothing had ever happened—except that his thumb hooks underneath my hand rather than on the top. "Sorry to have held you up, and I'm even sorrier to have to meet you for this particular reason, but I am glad that we finally have a chance to meet."

"No need to apologize. Our schedule is flexible, and I have confidence that things with the Committee will work out." Not sure what to make of the upside-down handshake or the stumble, I turn my head to scan for the doorway, then gesture toward it. "We haven't been to this starbase in several years, but I seem to remember the portmaster's office being through that door and somewhere to the right."

"I was here twelve years ago, but I'm afraid I don't remember that trip, so I won't be any help. I'll follow you."

As soon as we start moving, Tucker's handshake and stumble become two pieces of a more complete picture. He keeps pace with me easily enough, but he limps heavily on his right side and there's something odd about the overall way he walks that I can't quite put my finger on. Curious. Although he never mentioned having a disability himself, it does explain the way he chose to interpret his role as my handler.

Several yards past the door, while I'm still getting my bearings in the starbase's central corridor, he says, "You're one of the few officers I've ever met who hasn't immediately asked the obvious question. Either that means Captain Carmichael called to warn you—" I adjust my trajectory to avoid ricocheting off the wall and cutting him off, and he says, "—or it means that you're concentrating."

I laugh. "Neither. It means that I get tired of that being the first question someone asks me." Despite the basic curvature of the corridor being the same as on the _Enterprise_ , the starbase's corridor is narrower with a lower ceiling, which means that it has more reverberation than I'm used to. "Although you might be right in thinking that I should concentrate. I'm starting to remember this starbase now—the reverb here is killer."

"How did you manage last time?"

"Not very well. I had only been echolocating for six months or so. I didn't have enough experience to manage the reverb—plus we were on a tight deadline—so I let Spock lead. I have more experience now, and we have more time."

"You also have better equipment, don't you?" Comments and questions like that prove that Tucker really does read all the paperwork we send him, from meeting minutes to after-action reports. We just talked about the new signal transmitter prototype in our staff meeting last week.

"That too." The new prototype has user-adjustable controls, an integrated object recognition program, and an onboard reading program. I stop now to adjust the settings for the first time. "What's your secret for keeping up with all the paperwork we send you, Commodore?"

"Fortunately, I'm a fast reader. Admittedly, though, it's been a while since I reviewed the prototype drawings for the original signal transmitter, so would you mind refreshing my memory of how it worked?"

The device that we refer to as a signal transmitter actually consists of two transmitters, one just above and in front of each ear, connected by a tritanium band that wraps behind my head. Each transmitter emits a tone every two seconds, the left and right sides offset by one second, with a net effect of one signal per second. The sound of each signal is changed by what it encounters in the environment, so I know what's around me based on the changes I hear when it comes back to me. "The difference with this new model is that I can adjust how close together it sends out its signals, and I can adjust the volume manually."

"That's what you were just doing?"

"Right." Tucker and I have been in such close contact over the last five years that I sometimes forget he only knows us by our paper trail. "Think of each signal as flicking a light on and off; the closer together you compress the flashes of light, the better you see. Usually."

"I'm with you so far. The same, I guess, goes for volume—the louder the sound, the farther you see. Right?"

"Usually, yes. But when there's a lot of reverb, the louder, faster sounds actually make it harder to pick out useful information because everything is already amplified. In this case, slowing the signals down and lowering the volume makes it easier to concentrate."

"So with your old signal transmitter, how did you adjust the signal speed?"

"There was no way to slow it down, and I speeded it up by clicking my tongue to make the extra signals myself. Now I have four speeds—one signal every four seconds, the original speed of one signal every two seconds, one signal every second, or two signals every second—and four volume settings: low, medium, high, and automatic."

"How is it?"

I have to turn my head more to compensate for the slower, softer signal—directing the signals more deliberately at one wall and then the other—but it does give me a clearer picture of the curve of both walls. "That should do it."

"Very impressive. I understand now why you call Mr. Scott a miracle worker. But even so, two prototypes in a week seems like a fast turnaround time. Is he pushing because you're running out of time?"

"He wants all the prototypes approved before the end of the mission so the Committee can factor that into their decision." I start walking again, only to stop again another dozen meters later when the corridor splits, narrowing into an outer and an inner ring. Signage on one of the walls probably identifies which track I want; the difficulty is finding it. "Let's hope the reading program works as well as everything else has so far."

"What was wrong with the old one?"

"I had to be looking directly at the sign before it would read, which meant that I had to know where to look. In a situation like this, it was useless."

"Then let's hope this works. Take whatever time you need."

The left arm of my signal transmitter features a swing-down arm that lowers a bone-conduction earphone into position. On the forward edge of the earpiece sits a camera that feeds directly into an object recognition program and a reading program. If it works the way Scotty intended, the camera's wide-angle setting should allow me to scan for the directory. "I may have to ask you for help if this doesn't work."

"That's fine too."

Lowering the arm into place activates the integrated system. One scan of the corridor prompts a litany of information, far more than I actually need: "Starbase 13 Corridor A, 5.25 meters ahead, 10:00. Starbase 13 Corridor B, 5.25 meters ahead, 2:00." Directing a scan over my right shoulder in hopes of finding more specific signage turns up nothing, so I repeat the scan over my left shoulder. "Starbase 13 Corridor A Directory. Read?"

"Yes."

"Records Office, A10. Personnel Office A9. Security Office A8. Portmaster's Office A7. Quartermaster's…"

"Stop reading." I gesture toward the inner ring, where the corridor widens and the ceiling rises. The change in architecture dulls the reverb to a more manageable level, so I adjust my signals while we we're walking. "Now I'm looking for A7."

"That seemed painless from where I stand. I'm assuming that was what you were hoping for?"

"This is the first time in five years that I've been able to read just by looking around. I know Scotty understands that these little changes do make a difference, but I don't think he fully realizes just how big they are."

"Probably not. But you do seem to have a great crew, Captain."

"That's why I fight so hard for them." The device begins calling out room numbers as I scan. A signal from my right transmitter bounces off of a doorway on that side, and the computer announces, "A10." Another signal bounces off of a doorway on my left: "A9."

"It should be the next door on the left."

A signal bounces off of the door in question, and I look toward it. "A7," the computer says. "Read?"

"Yes."

"A7. Portmaster's Office, Commodore Henry Neilson."

"Here we are." I feel for the door chime on the wall, then listen for the response. I don't hear one, but the door slides open to let me step in.

"Commodore Henry Neilson, 3.5 meters, 12:00. Office chairs, 2.75 meters, 12:00. Desk…"

I push the arm back into its inactive position, inline with the signal transmitter band, because now it's more of a distraction than a help. By the time it tells me that there are chairs and a desk in front of me, I've already spotted them—two chairs, one on each end of the desk—as well as built-in shelving along the back wall. "Commodore Neilson? Captain James T. Kirk, _USS Enterprise_." I hold out my hand, expecting a handshake that never comes. "This is Commodore Ethan Tucker—"

"I'm aware of the situation." Neilson has already started retreating behind his desk. A small man, short and light, he moves with the ease of either an athlete or a dancer. "Sit. Tucker, are you capable of helping him find the chair, or do I need to do it?"

"I could if he needed me to."

"Thank you, Commodore, but that won't be necessary. I see both chairs." Since Tucker is the senior officer, protocol dictates that he should have the first pick of the seats. Still, just in case there's any question as to why I'm not moving toward one of them, I gesture toward both chairs. "After you."

Tucker moves toward the left-hand chair, so I take the one on the right, retracting my cane and reattaching it to my uniform once I'm seated. More sophisticated mobility devices do exist, and I've tried most of them at one point or another, but I like the simplicity and immediacy of the cane. It gives me details that my signal transmitter can't, details that bring the galaxy to life. But it's such a primitive device that I sometimes think people accustomed to power transfer their perceptions of it onto me. I get Neilson's reaction more often than I'd like.

"You manage surprisingly well, Captain."

"With all due respect, Commodore—I hold myself to the same standard as every other starship captain in the Fleet. There should be nothing surprising about me walking into an office and sitting down without help."

I'm struck by the difference between Neilson and Tucker. Aesthetically speaking, Neilson is more attractive: smaller, lighter, more graceful. Tucker is larger—both taller and heavier—and considerably less agile in the way he moves. Five years ago, I suspect their appearances might have fooled me. But from where I sit now, Tucker is clearly more attractive.

"Captain Carmichael and the _Carolina_ will convey the cargo to Delta Kappa Six." Neilson taps the end of a folder laying on the desk between us. "The _Enterprise_ has been reassigned to handle a more urgent situation. It seems that someone on the Personnel Oversight Committee believes you are best suited to the task. Do you have a way of reading sensitive documents, or does it need to be read to you?"

"Starships run on paperwork, Commodore. Of course I can read. I can access the print directly—" I gesture toward the folder. "—or a digital file, if you have one available."

"I'll have my secretary send it to you." He pushes the folder toward me, then reaches for the intercom on his desk.

Laying the file in my lap, I lift the paper file's cover with one hand and swing the reading device into place with the other. "Office of Starfleet Intelligence. Read?"

"Yes."

"Office of Starfleet Intelligence: Vice Admiral David Michael Mueller, Chief of Starfleet Intelligence. Report on breaches of the Romulan Neutral Zone in Sector F-013. Report prepared on Stardate 5617.8 by Captain Adoración Merlo, Commander Lincoln Thomas, Lieutenant Commander Vincente Davis."

While the computer reads, I lift the file just far enough to activate my PADD and check for the original message, but it hasn't arrived yet.

"On stardate 5610.1, a single uncloaked Romulan Bird-of-Prey was seen breaching the Neutral Zone in Sector F-013/02 and returning immediately to Romulan territory. On stardate 5613.3, two Romulan Birds-of-Prey were seen uncloaking in Sector F-013/02 in violation of the Neutral Zone and then returning toward Romulan territory. The cloaks were re-engaged after departure."

A new message appears in my document viewer, sent from Starbase 13, and I open it because these are the types of details I need to get my fingers on. It's one thing to listen to a living person present information, something else entirely to listen to a computer read. Reading things for myself, I can control the pace and stop to process what I'm reading. For instance, I find it interesting that the Romulans have reverted to using their old bird-of-prey design instead of the Klingon D7s that they've been using for a couple of years now.

Once the message appears underneath my fingertips, I swing the reading device back to deactivate it and close the paper file, laying it back on the corner of the desk. I skim to catch up with where the readout left off.

 _On stardate 5617.6, one uncloaked Romulan Bird-of-Prey was seen breaching the Neutral Zone in Sector F-013/02. Two additional Romulan Birds-of-Prey subsequently uncloaked in that same location, and all three returned to Romulan territory uncloaked._

 _Sector F-013/02 is not regularly patrolled by Federation ships and contains no Federation outposts or colonies at the request of the inhabitants of Menno Four, a star system located within this sector. Menno Four is a member of the United Federation of Planets, accepted for membership in 2204. Mennoans are extremely reclusive and prefer minimal contact with off-worlders. The only other inhabited world in this sector, Foscara Six, is not known to the Federation._

"Are you familiar with the Mennoans, Captain?"

"Yes. The _Enterprise_ delivered an emergency supply of pharmaceuticals to their Minister of Medicine two Earth years ago."

"How did that encounter go?"

"The Mennoans can be challenging, but clear communication about what is and what is not negotiable goes a long way. We had no incidents." Romulans are breaching the Neutral Zone and he's worried about a possible diplomatic scuffle with a species of unarmed recluses?

"At least you have that in your favor. Have you reached the recommendations?"

"I should be done in a moment." That's the benefit of reading braille versus listening to a computer readout: I can carry on a conversation and keep reading at the same time.

 _Recommended actions:  
\- Notify Menno Four of Romulan activity within 2.5 AU of the Menno star system  
\- Explore Foscara Six to determine cultural readiness for first contact and/or applicability of the Prime Directive, including planetary defense capability  
\- Establish Federation presence in this sector immediately._

I shut the PADD off and move my hands away from the screen to let Neilson know that I'm finished. A couple of his comments have my full attention now. "Commodore, may I speak frankly?"

"Go on."

"The _Enterprise_ has had successful contact with the Mennoans, handled more than 50 first contacts, and successfully negotiated encounters with the Romulans on three separate occasions. We were already in this sector. And yet—in spite of our qualifications—you seem to doubt our ability to handle this situation. I'd like to know why."

"Are you sure, Captain? You remember, of course, that you and I aren't alone."

That's an answer in and of itself—and the subtle shift of fabric moving in Tucker's chair says that he knows it too—but I push ahead anyway because I want Neilson to say it for the record. "Of course I'm sure. I have nothing to hide from Commodore Tucker. Why do you question the _Enterprise_ 's ability to manage a situation for which we are uniquely qualified?"

"I don't see the wisdom in sending the Fleet's best ship into a potentially deadly situation with a disabled skipper at the helm. You apparently have a very talented and competent crew, and you do seem to have gotten extremely lucky on a number of occasions, but a ship is only as good as her skipper. Your luck will eventually run out."

Tucker clears his throat. "If you believe that the _Enterprise_ is unlikely to succeed, you have a duty to object to Starfleet's assignment. Why haven't you done that? Given the nature of this particular assignment and the enormous potential for risk to the Federation if it fails—"

"Six of the most important players in Starfleet politics decided that the _Enterprise_ is worthy of the assignment. Who am I to argue?"

"The man on the front line whose starbase could be in jeopardy if this assignment doesn't succeed. If your objections are legitimate, it shouldn't matter who gave the assignment."

"You know as well as I do that questioning the Committee's decision would be political suicide. Unlike you, I have no intention of retiring as a commodore. Does that answer both of your questions?"

"It answers mine," Tucker says. "Captain?"

"Absolutely. Commodore Neilson, I do appreciate your honesty." I shift the PADD on my lap and re-extend my cane, making clear my intention to leave. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this situation, or are we free to get underway?"

"Fortunately or unfortunately, our sensors have detected nothing and I have no additional information for you. You can go."

"Thank you." Reactivating my signal transmitter, I head for the door and don't stop until after Tucker and I are in the hallway with a closed door between the two of us and Neilson. "I thought that went well."

"You got him to put his opinion on the record," Tucker says. "That's more than I expected."

"That's why I thought it went well."

"In fact, it went so well that I need to step down the hall to the communications office. With any luck, the starbase's computer will have been recording that meeting; if so, I want a copy of it for my report. The Committee needs to see that."

"I'm afraid I'll have to follow you this time. The communications office must have been listed further down the directory."

"A2."

A8 is directly across the hall from Neilson's office, so A2 should be three doors down on the right. Now that I have a number to look for, I activate the object recognition and reading program again. "So I gather that you've seen the report?"

"No, actually I haven't. May I?"

"You're telling me that that whole conversation was a bluff on your part?" The report wasn't marked _Eyes Only_ , so I have no problem with Tucker seeing it. I just need to figure out how to hand it to him; that upside-down handshake still has me confused. _A6._ "Remind me not to play poker with you, Commodore."

"It was an educated bluff, but thank you. My office at Starfleet Headquarters is down the hall from the Intelligence office, so I hear rumors. I knew something serious was going on out in this neck of the woods. This close to the Neutral Zone, it had to involve the Romulans."

"That was still impressive. Which side should I hand you the report on—the left?"

"Yes, please." He stops walking long enough to receive it, then tucks it under his right arm. "Thanks. I'll have to hold onto it until we're stopped in the communications office."

"That's fine. Before you left Earth, did you have any inkling the Committee had changed our assignment?"

"I knew they were considering it, yes; I had just gotten done badgering them about it. I hadn't heard their final decision yet, though, and I certainly wasn't privy to the details of the alternative."

 _A4._

"You badgered them into changing our final assignment? Why?"

"Because the _Enterprise_ is still the finest ship in the Fleet, and her captain isn't going to spend the next five years making cargo runs; he's going to spend them exploring and keeping galactic peace. I told the Committee that if they were genuinely considering letting you retain command, I needed to observe you carrying out a real assignment—something with stakes that mattered."

"So the fact that they reconsidered is a good sign." _Mechanical Room._ "It says I have a fighting chance."

"Exactly." Coming up on the end of the corridor, Tucker slows. "Here we are. Sorry for the delay in getting back to the ship, but Neilson's attitude is similar to some of the folks on the Committee itself. This is my way of letting you address them."

 _A2._ "I appreciate that."

The door opens and I follow Tucker into the small office, disengaging the reading arm again. A young woman looks up at us from behind a desk, changing the direction of her voice. "Can I help you, Commodore?"

"Yes. We were just in a meeting with Portmaster Neilson. I need you to access the system log and save a copy of that meeting to a data card for me. I have a security authorization, if you need it."

"Yes, sir." The young woman punches a series of controls on her side of the console, then looks back up at us. "I'm ready."

"Security Authorization: Lambda-Zeta-Sigma 1-3-3-8-5-1-7 Alpha-Epsilon."

The computer on her side of the desk answers with a series of bleeps and whirs, then announces that it's working.

"It'll just be a minute, sir."

"Thank you." While we're waiting, Tucker pulls the folder out and flips it open. "Now that we have a minute, let's see what's brewing."

"I hope you don't have any houseplants back home that need watering, or pets that need to be fed. It looks like we're going to be out here a while."

The answer is a laugh. "Fortunately, I was born an optimist. I warned my wife that I could be gone a while if everything went well. And any assignment that involves both the Mennoans and the Romulans is guaranteed to take time."

"Especially when you throw a potential first contact into the equation."

After apparently scanning the report, he grunts. "The Foscari? Well, I'll be."

"Commodore?"

"You remember me pointing out earlier that you hadn't asked the obvious question?" He doesn't wait for my answer, just flips the folder closed again and hands it back. "Now's the time to ask."


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

"Twelve years ago, I was First Officer on a scout ship called the _Daniel Boone_. She was old and cramped, her equipment was always breaking, and her skipper was a few years shy of retirement age. Conditions weren't ideal, but we made it work most of the time."

Tucker and I are in the hallway again, retracing our steps to the transporter lounge. The corridors seemed busier the last time I was here. At any rate, the lack of foot traffic and competing voices makes it considerably easier to stay together.

"Captain Hasselbeck was a good commanding officer at one time. I'd served under him for eleven years, and I learned a lot from him when I first came on board. But then burnout set in. All the things that he used to believe mattered—ship maintenance, drills, practice maneuvers—started either slipping or getting put off on me. And he'd started avoiding landing parties because they complicated his reports, and he'd lost his patience for paperwork too."

I understand why the Committee assigned Tucker as my handler. He knows first-hand what it means to serve under a commanding officer who shouldn't be on the line. Based on his own history, he knows how to judge the condition of a ship's command structure. "That sounds like a recipe for trouble."

"It was. And Starfleet must have picked up on the change because they'd started sending us on a lot of planetary surveys. That made his job easy. All he had to do was delegate teams to send down, wait for the departmental reports, and sign off on them."

Listening to Tucker, I realize how lucky I was. All of my commanding officers were top-notch. They ran tight, well-organized ships and were actively involved in the missions we'd been assigned.

"I'm telling you all this not to criticize Captain Hasselbeck, but so that you'll understand why things happened the way they did."

"I understand."

"Starfleet had sent us to explore the Foscara system and survey any habitable planets. Our initial sensor readings indicated that there were two possibilities, the sixth planet and the tenth. The sixth was inhabited, but without any evidence that they were warp-capable the Prime Directive was in effect. That was going to make the survey complicated. By comparison, surveying the tenth planet would be easy because it was uninhabited."

Merging into the starbase's primary corridor, I relocate from the center to the right-hand wall because that makes it easier to follow the curve. I also turn down the volume on my signal transmitter, reduce the signal speed, and start scanning. The only drawback to the new arrangement is that if I do ricochet off a wall, I'm going to bounce off of Tucker next.

"Do you need to concentrate, Captain?"

"I should be fine as long as you're talking, but if I look like I'm going to run into you, either say something or just tap me."

"You've got it. Our sensors showed that the planet only supported a limited range of plants and no large animals, so the captain sent down teams of geologists and botanists to start the survey. The botany team radioed back within the first fifteen minutes claiming to have seen an animal—they described it as a panther, only with fangs. Our sensor readings still showed no life signs, but the geologists suggested that some of the planet's minerals could be throwing the sensors off, so the captain sent down a team of zoologists and a large security detachment."

Along the outside wall, I hear the transporter room—or what I presume to be the transporter room, since I don't remember passing any other open spaces when we arrived. I turn toward it, only to be stopped by Tucker's forearm.

"Too soon," he says. "There are two rooms side-by-side. I'm not sure how useful it would be, but you're welcome to take my arm if you think it would help."

While I believe what he's telling me, I don't hear two rooms; I only hear one large, open space. I'm sure I could identify the transporter lounge if I spent time studying the space, but right now I'm more interested in Tucker's story. "It would help. Thank you." All I need from him is a sense of direction, so I keep my cane extended in my free hand and trap the folder and my PADD under my arm on that side. "Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead."

"No need to apologize. We kept a security detachment on the planet for several days, until the zoologists reported that they hadn't seen any large animals. None of the security officers had seen anything either and they were complaining about being cold, so Captain Hasselbeck withdrew them. Immediately the botanists started complaining that no one was taking them seriously. Both the geology and botany teams only had another six to eight hours of work left, so the captain sent me down for the last shift just to appease them."

Inside the transporter lounge, the acoustics normalize. I spot the platform along the back wall and let go of Tucker's arm to readjust my signal transmitter. My cane catches the bottom step within a few meters, and we both climb up to the platform, Tucker only one step behind me. Once we're each settled on a transporter pad, I pull out my communicator and flip it open. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. Two to beam up."

My signal transmitter starts working a full second before my body finishes rematerializing on the ship. By the time I'm able to move, two signals have already passed, one from each side—illuminating the far corners of the room, the transporter console, and a pair of bodies behind it. Once the tip of my cane slides over the nose of the first step, I put the cane away and jog down the steps, then turn back to wait for Tucker.

One body steps out from behind the console, leaving the other to greet us from behind it. "Welcome home, Captain." Transporter Chief Kyle, still behind the console. "Yeoman Burris is here with me, sir. Commodore, we just received your bag from the _Carolina_ , and Yeoman Burris was about to deliver it to your quarters."

Maneuvering down seems to be trickier than going up, and Tucker is still approaching the first step. "That's fine, Yeoman, but would you come and add this card to my bag, please? Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

She retrieves the card, then picks up his bag and heads for the door. "Yeoman Burris leaving, Captain."

"Before you do—" I hold the file folder out to her. "Take this to my quarters and lay it on my desk, please."

"Yes, sir."

As soon as Burris is gone, Kyle steps out from behind the transporter console. "Commodore, do you need any help, sir?"

The hesitation in Tucker's answer leads me to think he's considering the offer. "No, I'm usually steadier than I look. But thank you, Lieutenant." He sidesteps, steadying himself against the left-hand wall, and finally steps down with his bad leg. "I'm slowing you down, Captain. My apologies. If you need to go on ahead, just tell me where you're headed and I can catch up."

"Don't apologize, Commodore. I can wait. Just take your time."

"I'm afraid I don't have a choice going down stairs. You'd never know I used to be an avid hiker."

Ordinarily, I would call up to the bridge and have the helm start undocking procedures, but in this case I'd be afraid of the movement upsetting his balance while he was between steps. Another minute in space dock won't hurt us. "So you beamed down to the planet. Based on what you've said and on what I've observed, I'm guessing that you had a run-in with the panther?"

"About three hours in. I never heard it, never saw it; I was so cold by that point that I never even felt it. It jumped me from behind and sank its fangs into the lower part of my neck. We found out later that those fangs were coated in a neurotoxin, which is what caused the damage."

"Your neck? You're lucky it didn't kill you."

"Luckier than you can imagine. It missed one of my carotid arteries by millimeters." He moves down another step. "Luckily, one of the geologists heard me collapse; he turned around and shot the animal before it had a chance to do any more damage, and he got me back to the ship before I either bled out or developed frostbite." He negotiates the last step, then lets out a sigh. "Thank you, Captain."

"For what?"

"Distracting me."

"Oh." I grin. "That wasn't my intention, but if it helped, I suppose you're welcome. If you're ready, we'll head up to the bridge and get underway."

"I'll follow you. You don't use your cane on board the ship?"

"The _Enterprise_ is home." Heading toward the door, I shrug. "I know where all the hazards are."

"That's true. I guess you would."

We're heading toward the turbo lift when footsteps round the bend out of an intersecting hallway ahead of us. "Jim!" McCoy barrels toward us.

"Bones. Something wrong?"

"You could say that." McCoy does an about-face and falls into step on my other side. "I just had the most maddening call from the _Carolina_ 's CMO, and I have half a mind to report the man."

"You'd better be of a whole mind before you actually go through with it. What did he say?"

The turbo lift doors open, and McCoy follows us inside. "There are certain words in the English language that ought to have been outlawed—especially coming out of the mouths of supposed medical professionals. And I'm relatively sure Starfleet must have some kind of regulation against applying them to flag officers."

"Bones?"

"Jim, I don't even like to repeat it. Let's just say if I'd ever used the word in front of my mother, she'd have made me sterilize my mouth."

Steadying himself on the railing inside the turbo lift, Tucker seems unfazed by McCoy's explosion. "Dr. Steiner—the _Carolina_ 's CMO—restricted me from the bridge based strictly on my medical record, and I'm surprised he didn't confine me to my quarters. Didn't even bother to set eyes on me first. When he finally did bump into me in the mess hall the day before we reached the starbase, he called me a cripple in front of a dozen junior officers. I heard him use the same term half a dozen times before I beamed off the ship."

"Wait. You mean to tell me that you heard him say it but you didn't report him?"

"Doctor, if I reported everybody who used unflattering words to describe me, the halls of Starfleet Headquarters would be vacant. I learned a long time ago to ignore the names and insinuations and insults—as long as they only apply to me."

"But why? No one deserves to be talked about that way."

"Maybe because I'm a mouse by nature." Tucker's tone implies that he's shrugged the incident with Steiner off. But then his tone hardens, and I realize that the casualness was a bluff just like the one in Neilson's office. "No one ever expects the mouse to bite. It makes them yelp a little louder when I do."

McCoy's most immediate answer is to grunt. "Now I know how Starfleet came up with the description in your psychological profile."

"Bones?"

"Commodore Tucker's profile described him as 'thick-skinned and shrewd'—and headstrong. It mentioned that too. Speaking of which, Commodore, welcome aboard. You should fit right in around here."

Tucker laughs, long and hearty, and holds out his left hand to McCoy. "Thank you, Doctor. That's the most welcoming thing I've heard in a long time. It's good to finally meet you in person."

"Same here." McCoy steps forward to accept the handshake, and his voice loosens up in response to Tucker's laugh. "So how long before the cargo's loaded, Jim?"

"There isn't any cargo. There's been a change in plans."

"Oh?"

"One word, Bones: Romulans."

"Well, that'll certainly liven things up. Where at?"

"Stick around and you'll find out." The turbo lift slows to a stop on the bridge and I lead the way out, angling toward communications. Spock vacates the command chair, displacing Chekov from the science station back to navigation and Leslie from navigation to environmental engineering.

"Welcome back, Captain," Uhura says, turning to look up at me.

"Thank you. I need you to compose a message to Menno Four and send it encrypted to their Minister of Defense."

"Menno Four? Yes, sir."

"Let them know that half a dozen Romulan birds-of-prey have been spotted in their sector, both cloaked and uncloaked, over the course of the past Earth week. Let the Mennoans know that the _Enterprise_ will be patrolling their sector until further notice—that part is non-negotiable—but we will not enter the Mennoan star system unless they specifically request protection."

"Yes, sir. Given that this is the Mennoans, would you like to review the message before I send it?"

"Good idea. Send it to my PADD when you finish and I'll look it over." I step down to the command chair. "Chekov, lay in a course for Foscara Six, please. Sulu, take us out of dock and accelerate to warp six."

As the ship eases out of space dock, Tucker stops within reach of the railing at engineering. He seems steady as long as we're only maneuvering using thrusters. Accelerating to impulse power doesn't seem to bother him. It's the jump from impulse power to warp speed that finally throws him off-balance. He stumbles and steadies himself against the railing.

"Commodore, are you all right?" McCoy leaves his place behind the command chair to stand near Tucker instead, presumably in case he needs to lend a hand.

"I'm fine, Doctor. Pay me no mind."

McCoy grunts. "With all due respect, sir—Nothing doing. Jim, can you increase one warp factor at a time? I'm working a theory."

"Of course. Sulu, you heard the doctor. Take us to warp two."

Tucker stumbles again as the ship accelerates, but less this time.

By the time we're ready to make the last jump, from warp five to six, Tucker's only response is to take a single extra step. "My apologies, Captain, but thank you. And thank you, Doctor."

McCoy huffs. "Lucky for you, I know a thing or two about stubborn crewmembers."

Judging by the way everyone laughs, and by Spock's understated grunt—I wouldn't have heard it at all, except that he's stepped down to stand at my right elbow—I think I know what just happened. "Spock, did we just get called out?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Well, at least we're in good company."

"Couldn't have said it better myself." Tucker moves out from behind the railing, apparently intending to make his way down to the command level. "I'll eventually figure out how to maintain my balance as we change speeds. It's just that I've logged appallingly few space hours in the last twelve years."

I grin at him. "No trouble, Commodore. We'll have that corrected in no time. You're all right?"

"I'm fine. The problem is that I only have limited sensation in my trunk and lower body, so finding my balance in certain situations can be challenging—but like I said, I will figure it out in time. Dr. McCoy's idea to increase one warp factor at a time was extremely helpful."

"Jim, if you do the same thing when you need to decelerate, pretty soon you should be able to increase and decrease by bigger margins. The most important thing is to let him know what you're jumping to so he can learn to anticipate."

"Understood. Spock, I assume everything was quiet here on the ship?"

"It was, Captain—with the exception of a call to you from the captain of the _Carolina_. I suggested that she leave a message for you in your quarters, since it appeared to be of a personal nature."

"Gloating over her win at the docking station, no doubt." The crew needs to be briefed about our new assignment, so I should probably wait to retrieve the message later. But given the problem Tucker had on Sam's ship, I decide to play a hunch and retrieve it now. "I need everybody in the briefing room in 30 minutes. Until then, I'll be in my quarters."

McCoy follows me to the turbo lift, leaving Tucker behind on the bridge to observe.

Once the turbo lift doors close, I have between the bridge and Deck 3 to ask as many questions as I can. "Bones, explain Tucker's condition. I think I have the basics figured out, but there's something I can't put my finger on."

"You're not alone."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that judging by his Starfleet medical records, there's no way he should be walking—not without support and certainly not as well as he does. He had severe nerve damage from an unknown neurotoxin. He has next to no sensation below the injury site, slightly worse on the left—"

"Wait. Left? But his bad side is on the right."

"In terms of motor function, yes, but in terms of sensation his left side is the bad one."

"How is that possible?"

"As I said, it was an unknown neurotoxin, so we don't fully understand the mechanism of it—and the _Daniel Boone_ 's CMO didn't seem interested in floating too many theories about it. But there is a degree of cross-laterality in the spinal cord; my guess is that had something to do with it. Anyhow, he was completely paralyzed at first."

"All right, I'm with you so far. But if he shouldn't be able to walk, how is he doing it?"

"Darned if I know. Starfleet Medical can't even explain it. But just to be clear, what he's doing isn't technically impossible. It's just that ordinarily I would only expect to see results like this in someone who'd had an extensive amount of therapy—we're talking about ongoing treatment for years—and even then I wouldn't have guaranteed it."

"He didn't have that?"

"No. Starfleet provided him with regular therapy for the first year after the injury, but it was discontinued due to lack of progress. He could only walk limited distances with extensive support, and he wasn't expected to make much progress beyond that. But when he came in for his annual physical a year after that, he walked in—slowly and with support, but he was walking a lot farther and better than he was a year earlier."

"And here he is ten years later, negotiating starships again."

"Small gains in muscle control and strength I could understand, but his reflexes are something else entirely. They're significantly better than they should be, and so is his balance. It's really remarkable what he's able to do with what little he has."

"That's what stubbornness buys you."

"Maybe. But I can't understand what would possess the Committee to send him out here on an assignment like this. Jim, maneuvering this ship—even just standing on the bridge, like what we just saw—requires a tremendous amount of effort. I wonder if the Committee understood what it was asking him to do."

"They didn't ask him to, per se. He argued against a cargo run because he knew a real assignment would give me a better chance to prove myself. He volunteered for this."

"Which is admirable, unless it becomes a liability."

"Will it?"

Following me out of the turbo lift and down the hall to my quarters, Bones doesn't answer right away. Instead, he follows me inside and lets the door shut behind us. "Depends on the situation, of course, but I don't think so—not as long as it's managed right. Same as you."

I nod. "Thanks, Bones. That's what I needed to know. I don't want him getting thrown into something that's beyond what he can do, so I'll depend on you to stay on top of it—whether he likes it or not."

"Of course. I'll keep probing to make sure we all know when and how far he's pushing himself."

"That's all I ask. I'm too grateful to him, and I have too much respect for him, to let him get himself hurt in the name of saving my career."

"That's why Steiner's comment makes me so furious. How can you not respect a man who boards a vessel that's headed into combat, knowing his body doesn't operate the way it should, just because it'll benefit someone else?"

I nod. "I wonder if that's why the Committee assigned me to Tucker instead of to another handler. They knew he'd give me a fair chance because they knew he was willing to take chances himself."

"You could be right." Bones claps me on the shoulder. "All right, I'll let you get to your message. I'm heading back up to the bridge."

Once McCoy leaves, I head over to my desk and settle down behind the monitor. The message from Sam is waiting for me.

"Hey, Jim. Sam Carmichael here." It's the same breezy tone I remember, casual—with fangs. "With a helmsman that slow, I don't see how you've survived as many battles as you have. But it seems to work for you, so I guess we all make do with what we've got, right?" She never could pass up a chance to throw insults. "Anyhow, I just wanted to drop you a line to say hi. And to warn you about Tucker."

I sit up straight and focus. Sam always had good insights and I respect her for that, even when I'm not in the mood to enjoy her hypercompetitive tendencies.

"I've heard a lot of conflicting rumors about how much vision you have, and I'm not sure which ones to believe, but in any case it sounds like your vision is seriously compromised, so I figured I'd do you a favor and warn you. Tucker's a liability waiting to happen. My CMO said he was too unstable on his feet and wanted him in a wheelchair while he was on board, but Tucker refused. He agreed to stay out of critical areas, so I asked Dr. Steiner not to push the issue."

Even when McCoy said he didn't understand how Tucker was walking, it didn't occur to me that a wheelchair might be appropriate. The question is, am I overlooking something—not seeing something that's obvious to a person with vision—or am I just seeing the situation from a different perspective?

"I hope you know you got lucky. Your career depends on Tucker being able to do his job, and I could have stopped that from happening by letting Steiner file a complaint against him. The only reason I didn't—and this shouldn't surprise you—is because I want your ship, and everyone knows you have a few powerful friends on the Committee. I didn't want to risk running afoul of them by filing a complaint against Tucker before we even delivered him to the starbase."

I haven't had much contact with my former classmates from the Academy, including the ones I called friends. Partly that's by virtue of how quickly I've been promoted, and partly it's by choice. Hearing from Sam again reminds me exactly why I've made that choice.

She clears her throat, and for a brief moment she sounds genuine. "In a way, I feel bad for you. A man with your ambition and drive having no control over his career, being at the mercy of a bureaucratic committee—It must drive you crazy. If I was in your position, I would rather step in front of a phaser than spend the rest of my career depending on the charity of others."

That's the other reason I haven't stayed in touch. I don't need Sam Carmichael's—or anyone else's—pity.

"But I have to give you credit. You've got a lot of nerve insisting that they keep letting you command the Fleet's biggest fighting machine. So as long as you still insist on putting yourself on the line, this is the last time I'm going to let you off easy. Next time, it's game on. In the meantime, you'll have your hands full with Tucker—but then you always did like challenges, so maybe that suits you. I just thought you deserved to know. Talk to you later."

It takes me a minute to digest the whole call, but especially the bit about Tucker and Steiner. Despite his senior rank, Tucker is a staff officer and can have his wishes overridden by either a ship's captain or CMO. By refusing to follow the CMO's recommendations, he was technically out of compliance, and Steiner would have been within his rights to file a complaint. But how far out of line was Steiner's recommendation?

There's only one way to find out. "Kirk to Dr. McCoy."

"McCoy here. You need me, Captain?"

"I do."

"Be right there." A few minutes later, McCoy arrives and settles into the guest chair at my desk. "Something in the message from Captain Carmichael?"

"Apparently Steiner wanted Tucker in a wheelchair while he was on board the _Carolina_ , and Tucker refused. Was the recommendation out of line, or was Tucker out of line for refusing?"

"No wonder Tucker wouldn't file that complaint." McCoy's sigh sounds troubled. "Neither was out of line."

"How do you figure that?"

"Just to look at what's written in his medical record, I understand Steiner's recommendation. Artificial gravity aside, walking on a starship is different than walking on a planet. Your muscles have to work harder to keep you balanced, especially when there's a change in speed, so there is a much higher risk for falling on a ship."

"Okay."

"On the other hand, he should have examined Tucker in person before he made the call. People are more than a collection of diagnoses and prescriptions, and any doctor worth his medical license should know that."

"So what you're telling me is that Steiner was technically within his rights as the CMO, but he also wasn't following best practice."

"Exactly. Plus, I do understand Tucker not wanting to use a wheelchair. On a small transport ship like the _Carolina_ , even the smallest chair would've restricted where he could go and what he could do—much more than the restrictions imposed by his own body."

"I hadn't thought about that, but you're right. Transport ships are small, and he would have known how limited the chair would make him. I can understand him wanting to avoid that—especially given that he thinks he can adapt."

"And then there's the psychological bit of it."

"Talk to me."

"For some people—maybe even for most people in his condition—a wheelchair might mean freedom from a body that won't cooperate, but that isn't the case for Tucker."

"Is that your observation, or was it in his psychological profile?"

"Some of both, but his psych records deal quite extensively with how he manages his disability. He's gotten used to the way his body works, he enjoys using it, and he's not afraid to push himself. For a man like that, a wheelchair would add a disability, not remove it. Steiner should have considered that."

"So it sounds like Steiner was in the wrong."

McCoy sighs. "It's a complicated situation, but if you press me into picking sides—Yes, he was. He made a recommendation without first observing the patient or considering the patient's psychological well-being, and that's poor practice."

"If Tucker does fall, how fragile is he?"

"Not. His body is every bit as healthy as yours. It's just less coordinated."

"In that case, if I'm understanding the situation correctly, insisting that Tucker use a wheelchair would be like insisting that I use a vision replacement system. For some people in my situation—maybe even most—any visual input at all would be welcome, but for me it would just remind me of how much I'd lost."

"You understand the situation perfectly. You going to let Tucker know that you know?"

"I will if it comes up, but right now I have bigger problems to worry about."

McCoy stands, heading for the door. "Sounds like it's shaping up to be one heck of a meeting."

"You can only imagine." Before I head to the briefing room, I have one other old classmate to get in touch with. "See you again in just a few."


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

"Hey, Adora. It's Jim Kirk."

Like Sam Carmichael, Adoración Merlo was a friend at the Academy. Unlike Sam, who tends to be hypercompetitive in all the wrong ways, Adora's just driven. That's why Sam's been stuck on the bridge of a small transport ship for almost ten years now and Adora's already at the head of a short line heading for one of the _Enterprise_ 's sister ships.

"Jimmy!" Adora clucks her tongue at me. "Your ears must be burning."

Aside from my mother, there are very few people that I'll let call me Jimmy. Adora's one of them. Accordingly, I raise my eyebrows at her. "Oh?" I laugh. "Why's that?"

"You'll never guess who just called me—not even one hour ago."

Given the situation and the cadets I used to run with at the Academy, it isn't hard to guess. "Sam Carmichael?"

"Sí. What, you read minds now too?" She laughs. "It's so good to see you again! It's been too long. How are you?"

"I'm good. The _Enterprise_ is coming up on the end of its five-year mission, so I'm holding my breath to see if they send us out again. But I think the chances are at least decent right now. How about you?"

"Good, good. They say I could be getting the _Opportunity_ soon."

"That's what I heard. I'd tell you congratulations, but I don't want to jinx anything for you. So what did Sam want? As if I can't guess."

Adora clucks her tongue again, but this time she lowers her tone and the effect is entirely different. "I swear that chica has loose bolts or something. You should have heard the things she said."

"She told you we just bumped into each other?"

"Sí, she told me. She wants your ship."

"She did mention that, yes. But that's actually not why I'm calling."

"No?" She's quiet for a moment or two, then grunts. "Oh, you must have read the report. I'm glad they're sending you."

"Commodore Neilson wasn't."

She clucks again, the same tone she used with Sam. "Just between us, he has loose bolts too." Then her tone shifts again, all business. This is why I've always liked working with Adora. "I guess you want to know about the Romulans."

"Especially the parts that weren't in the report."

"It all happened very fast," she admits. "Most everything went into the report, but, sí, we left out some of our speculations. What do you want to know?"

"Did they see you?"

"We saw them, so I assume they saw us. But if you mean did they see us and run away? I don't think so, no. Especially not the last time—"

"Hold on while I call up the report." I grab my PADD and skim through the text to find her descriptions of the three incidents. _… one uncloaked Romulan Bird-of-Prey was seen breaching the Neutral Zone in Sector F-013/02. Two additional Romulan Birds-of-Prey subsequently uncloaked in that same location …_ "The three ships arrived separately, so the first ship would have had a chance to warn the other two away if they had wanted to."

"Sí, and the first ship arrived several minutes before the other two. Once all three were uncloaked, they stayed another two or three minutes before they went back. What are you reading—braille?"

I nod. "It's better than having the computer read to me. Where were you when you observed all this?"

"The same place we are now: mapping and surveying the Kappa Theta system." I hear the indecision in her voice, and moments later I understand why. "Jimmy, I think they want something in the Foscara system. They were hunting it like hawks. It's only a matter of time before they strike."

"Hence the recommendation to investigate the Foscari culture. Anything else that might be helpful? Could you tell if they were the same ships every time, or if they were always different ships?"

"We were too far away; they were at the very edges of our sensor range. I'm sorry—I wish I had more to tell you."

"No, this is valuable. It's plenty. When you picked up the first incident, I assume that you reported it to Starfleet?"

"Of course. I'm going to sit on the Romulans breaching the Neutral Zone? I reported it right away. But the Romulans had already gone back over the Neutral Zone, and Starfleet said the _DaVinci_ doesn't have enough weapons to chase them off if they come back, so they said don't do anything. I reported every time there was another incident—I thought maybe they would at least send a destroyer—but they ignored us. That's why I made the big report and sent it to directly Starfleet Intelligence, because no one else listened."

"How much longer will you be in the Kappa Theta system?"

"We're almost done here. I thought maybe we should map and survey the Foscara system ourselves next; then we would be close by if you needed backup. We don't have much in the way of weapons, but we're clever with what we have."

"I'd expect nothing less. You always were resourceful." The comm whistles for me, and I figure it must be time for the briefing. "Duty calls, but thank you for the information. I'll be in touch."

"Bueno. Don't be a stranger so long this time."

"I won't. Take care of yourself, Adora."

"You do the same. If there's another incident, I'll call you first."

The comm whistles again: "Briefing room calling Captain Kirk." The voice belongs to Lt. Uhura.

I flip the necessary switch to answer. "Yes, Lieutenant. I'm on my way. Just securing one last bit of information. I'll be right there."

"Yes, sir."

I transfer the message onto a data card, grab my PADD, and hurry to Briefing Room 2. A familiar chaos greets me: voices, bodies shifting in seats, boots circling the table, coffee cups sliding cross the table, PADDs and data cards clattering, the computer acknowledging the push of its buttons. Only the computer terminal represents a fixed sound, but that's enough. Spock will be beside that, and everyone will have left an open seat for me next to him. I head toward the terminal, around the body sitting behind it, and find the empty chair just beyond that.

"Captain."

"Spock."

He leans toward me, lowering his voice. "Captain, regarding Commodore Tucker—"

I nod. "Where is he?"

"Three seats to my left."

The Vulcan notion of IDIC— _infinite diversity in infinite combinations_ —is more nuanced than Vulcans would have the rest of the galaxy believe. There is, to their way of thinking, no logic in adapting an environment that meets the needs of the many for the needs of the few. In practice, that means that Vulcans with serious disabilities wind up secluded from general society. It's taken Spock all of the last five years to come to terms with my vision loss and my attitude toward it, and in his more transparent moments he'll admit that it's still a work-in-progress. The severity of Tucker's disability probably concerns him, especially given that we're headed into a potentially deadly situation. "Go on."

"I merely wished to express my concerns about his stability, in particular on the bridge of a working starship in a potential conflict situation."

"Noted." The person to my right pushes a coffee cup toward me from the center of the table. I hear the cup sliding, smell the coffee, and a signal bounces off of it as soon as it comes to rest. "That you, Bones?" It usually is, but with this many people here I can't be sure.

"Yeah, it's me."

I reach for the coffee and down half the cup in one swallow. It's been a long morning, and the caffeine jolt will do me good right about now. "All right, let's get started." Shifting my coffee cup aside, I reach for the data card reader and drop my card into the slot. "Scotty, will the viewer on my PADD connect to local monitor, or only to the main viewer?"

The answer is a grunt. "Only the main viewer—I hadn't thought about this one—but, aye, I can add the function to connect with local displays throughout the ship. It wouldn't be any trouble. I'd only need to borrow the PADD for less than an hour to update the programming."

"Let's do it. That would be helpful."

"Aye, sir."

The trouble with me presenting anything on the viewer is that until Scotty makes the change, I have no way of knowing for certain that what's displayed is what I meant to display. "Commodore, can you see the viewer from where you're sitting?"

"Yes, and that is the _DaVinci_ 's report."

Now that Tucker is on board with my crew, and especially now that I know his history, I'm beginning to understand why I feel so at ease with him. He's used to being someone's first officer, supporting rather than leading. "Thank you."

"Of course. Is everything all right?"

"It's fine." I don't want to get into the topic of Sam right now. "What I have on the screen is a report from Starfleet Intelligence detailing three separate Romulan incursions into Federation space over the past week. All three incidents have been clustered in the vicinity of the Foscara star system and adjacent to the Mennoan star system. All three incidents were observed by the _USS DaVinci_ , a science and research vessel studying the Kappa Theta system. The incursions are brief and—at least so far—have not included any attacks, but each incident includes more birds-of-prey and it struck the captain of the _DaVinci_ as hunting behavior. We've warned the Mennoans of the presence of Romulan activity in their subsector and also of our intent to increase the Federation's presence sector-wide, but we've also been tasked with finding out whether the Foscari are capable of defending themselves against the Romulans. Questions?"

Spock leans back in his seat. "I find it interesting that the Romulans appear to have abandoned their use of Klingon D7 vessels, at least in this instance, and are once again using birds-of-prey, despite their inferior size and capabilities. Has there been any mention of that fact?"

"No, but it struck me as well when I read the report. We'll have to wait and see what significance that has. Any other questions?"

"I am curious as to why Starfleet allowed an entire Earth week to pass before responding."

"Good question, but there's no answer to that either. The _DaVinci_ 's captain reported each incident separately, was ignored, and eventually prepared the cumulative report that you see here and sent it to Starfleet Intelligence. That said, the _DaVinci_ has plans to start mapping and surveying the Foscara system as soon as she finishes in Kappa Theta. That will put her on hand and at our disposal if and when she's needed."

"Excellent. The _DaVinci_ is a Class One research vessel with powerful sensors and a modest defensive armament, and her captain has the reputation of being a steady leader. She may prove a valuable ally."

"I'm counting on it. I was at the Academy with Captain Merlo, and she's very good at improvising. That modest supply of weapons will go a long way in her hands, if it comes to that."

"Captain," Chekov says, "I'm familiar with the Mennoans, of course, but not the Foscari."

"That's because we know almost nothing about them, beyond the basic fact that Foscara Six is inhabited by a sentient humanoid species. Spock, what do we know about the Foscara system?"

He leans out to push a data card into the slot nearest him. "It is a binary star system with two K2 main-sequence stars and a total of fourteen planets, two of which are habitable. Long-range sensors indicate that the entire system is rich in dilithium and many other high-value commodities that would make it a prime target. That is, however, the extent of our records regarding this system. The most recent long-range scans were recorded 24.87 years ago."

"A quarter-century ago. Nothing more recent than that?"

"Negative. This sector has been largely unexplored due to the ongoing challenge of diplomacy with the Mennoans."

I turn my head in Tucker's direction, and he grunts. "It's possible that the _Daniel Boone_ 's data wasn't logged properly. Remember me telling you that the ship was old and her equipment was always breaking? Memory was also an issue, and every so often someone would clear one of the working memory banks without remembering to log it first. The crew was mostly young—a lot of them fresh out of the Academy—so when I was on duty I always reminded them to log each memory bank before clearing it, but the captain wasn't always as careful."

"Thank you, Commodore. Perhaps you could explain your history to the crew, so that we're all on the same page?"

"Of course. I was first officer on a scout ship, the _Daniel Boone_ , that was assigned to survey the Foscara system twelve years ago. That's where I was injured. In fact, if I had to make a guess, my injury is probably the reason our scan and survey data wasn't logged properly."

Spock shifts, turning to look more squarely at Tucker. "With all due respect, Commodore, I fail to understand why an injury to the first officer should cause the data from an entire assignment to be lost. On a starship, there are procedures that are followed and a full command structure to offer support in the event of an emergency."

"I agree with you, Commander—It shouldn't have. But the reality of our situation was that we had a captain who was distracted and whose head was already partway into retirement, and our second officer had only been out of the Academy for a little over a year and had no command experience. I had informed Starfleet of the situation several times, but because the ship's doctor wouldn't back me up nothing was done."

"When you were injured, was the captain not in command?"

"He was at the time I was injured, but my understanding of what happened after that is hazy. I was in surgery for 6 hours and sedated for another 12 hours after that. By the time I came-to, we had already broken orbit from Foscara Ten and set a course for Starbase 13, the captain had resigned his commission, and the second officer had assumed command."

"You have to be joking." McCoy sits up a little straighter, leading forward over the table. "With an injury as severe as yours, they should have had you sedated for the rest of the trip to the starbase. You mean to tell me you were awake for almost the whole trip?"

"Dr. Travers wanted to put me back under, but we were in a bad spot. Our second officer was too young and too green to have to assume command like he did—he panicked—and there was nothing wrong with my mind, so Dr. Travers agreed not to sedate me again. I spent the rest of the trip to the starbase coaching Lt. Marlow through maintaining the ship's day-to-day operations."

Based on the picture Tucker has painted of conditions on the _Daniel Boone_ and of his role on the ship, I ask a hopeful question. "Commodore, how much of that lost data do you remember?"

He doesn't disappoint. "I can't quote you too many numbers at this point, but I can still paint you a pretty clear picture of Foscara Six."

"That'll be good enough for our purposes."

"The sixth planet is roughly the size of Earth—a little smaller, but I don't remember exactly how much—with a population just shy of 5 billion at the time. Primarily oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, huge dilithium and tritanium deposits, varied topography with freshwater oceans and eight major land masses. Almost all of the low-lying areas were built-up with complex artificial structures, but the atmosphere was pristine. We detected audio subspace communications but no signs of extra-planetary development or travel. Our universal translator was broken and we couldn't get it repaired before the attack, so we never discovered the nature of the communications, but I remember hearing the language itself. It struck me almost like music—there was a rhythmic, lyrical quality to it. Very beautiful to listen to."

I wonder if the Committee knew about Tucker's history with the Foscara system when they decided to send us on this particular assignment. Someone on the Committee must have had some inkling that he might prove valuable to us. How else can I explain the fact that the only man with unreported knowledge of the Foscari happens to be sitting at my briefing table at just the right moment?

Another thought follows that one. Assuming that I'm right, Sam's comment about me having friends on the Committee bothers me. I don't want the deck being stacked in my favor. I want to earn the Committee's approval through my own merits, not through favoritism.

"Commodore, you have a remarkable memory," Uhura says. "To remember all of that after twelve years, given everything you went through afterwards, is absolutely amazing."

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I come by it honestly. My mother was a painter and my father was a storyteller. Numbers I tend to forget, but if I can convert it into either a story or a picture I can remember just about anything."

Sulu clears his throat. "Captain, when we—"

Before he can finish his question, the comm whistles and Lt. Grace, Uhura's replacement at communications, says, "Bridge to Captain Kirk."

"Go ahead."

"Captain, we're being hailed by the _DaVinci_."

"Put it through down here." I wait for the connection to go through. "Adora?"

"There's another incident in progress," she says. "Three birds-of-prey just breached the Neutral Zone 0.73 AU from the edge of the Foscara system, uncloaked, and now they're just sitting there."

"How long have they been there?"

"How long did it take me to call you? That's how long they've been there. How far away are you?"

"Another 18 hours at warp six, but if we increase to maximum warp that should get us there in—"

"—13.5 hours, sir, give or take a few minutes," Sulu says.

"Adora, can you send us your sensor readings? And the sensor readings from the last three incidents? I'd like to let my science officer have a look."

"Sí, Jimmy—of course—but if you're wanting to know if it's the same three ships, it's like I told you before. We're too far away to compare readings."

"For the _DaVinci_ 's computer that may be true," Spock says, "but the _Enterprise_ 's computer may be able to extract additional data. Science Officer Spock speaking, Captain."

"Sí, okay. Then it's done." I catch a rush of voices somewhere distant from her, a rising pitch in the foreground. Then Adora: "They're heading back toward the Neutral Zone. Cloaks going up. We're losing them again."

"That's all right. The sensor readings will still be valuable, and we're on our way. If they follow pattern, we should have a couple of days before they come back."

"It doesn't matter," she says. "I don't like it. Get there fast, Jimmy."

"We will. We'll increase to maximum warp, and we'll be in touch when we arrive. If anything else happens—"

"Sí, you'll be my first call."

The connection ends and I call up to the helm to tell them to increase to maximum warp. And then the briefing room settles into an odd quiet.

McCoy breaks it first. "Jimmy?" His amusement is on open display, barely concealing an outright laugh.

"Adora has special privileges. She's a good friend."

"Apparently so."

"Indeed." I seem to associate that tone of Spock's voice with him raising an eyebrow—right one only, I think—but I've lost the visual for it. It's nothing more than a vague impression now, and I'm not sure if it's accurate.

"Not like that, you two. It's strictly platonic."

McCoy scoffs.

"We share a birthday; she's like a sister."

"Sure, Captain." The sarcasm is so thick in McCoy's voice that I could swear I hear my signals bouncing off of it. "We believe you. Don't we, Spock?"

"Of course, Doctor. I see nothing in the captain's history to suggest that we ought to believe otherwise."

"Spock, you've got to get off this ship more—you're picking up bad habits from McCoy. Sarcasm doesn't suit you." I turn from the table and gesture toward the door, aiming to get everyone out of the briefing room while I still have some shard of dignity left. "Check the facts, gentlemen. Adora and I share a birthday. We're friends— _nothing more_. Now, it's late and morning is likely to come early, so I would suggest that everyone here get food and rest. Meeting dismissed."


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

After everyone else leaves, three motionless bodies remain at the table with me—Spock on one side, McCoy on the other, and Tucker a couple of meters away. Spock and McCoy are both close enough that I can feel the shadow of their bodies against the side of my face, Tucker close enough for my signals to bounce off of his body. No one moves, no one speaks … and yet I can tell something needs to be said.

"What is it, you two?"

Spock moves first, ejecting his data card from the slot and turning away from the table as if to stand, although he makes no such move. "Merely that I am puzzled by Starfleet's lack of immediate response to the Romulans' initial appearance in this sector."

"You're not alone. But right now Starfleet politics isn't our concern—the Romulans are."

"Acknowledged. It is, however, a troubling matter."

Spock may have the Romulans on his brain, but in McCoy's case the subject is more likely to be Adora. In either case, they're going to have to wait. "Go on ahead, you two. I'll catch up with you in just a few minutes."

McCoy claps my shoulder on his way out. "Come on, Spock—before all the good food cards are gone."

Tucker waits until they've both taken their leave before he starts moving. He turns his chair more in my direction and leans forward as if to stand, only to fail and lean back to reset. He tries, and aborts, a second time. "I'm all right," he says. "I just need to get some food and then rest." He tries a third time, this time rocking forward with momentum, and small grunt finds him staggering to his feet. His right foot scuffs, and he catches himself on the table. "I'm impressed with how comfortable your crew is with you—especially Spock and McCoy."

"It's hard won, but worth it." Tucker is definitely struggling more now than he was when he first came on board, moving more deliberately and with less coordination. "Yeoman Burris can bring dinner to your quarters, if you need her to."

"No." His right foot scuffs again and he staggers sideways this time—one step—two steps—before somehow regaining his balance. He reorients toward the door and works up an uneven progression toward it. "For one thing, the Committee wants a full picture of life on board this ship; food and recreation periods are all an important part of that picture. And since they're a part that rarely gets addressed in reports, it's especially important for me to see that."

"You said that was one thing. What's the other?"

"I'm following you," he says once we move into the corridor. "The other thing is—All you're seeing is lack of conditioning. I've been chained to a desk for well over a decade now; my body's just forgotten what hard work is. I don't get very many opportunities to push myself these days."

"Probably because it backfires on occasion." Heading counterclockwise around the saucer section toward the nearest turbo lift, I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell him. "I understand the _Carolina_ 's CMO was afraid to let you push."

"Push?" Tucker huffs. "He was even afraid to let me coast. I figured Carmichael would tell you—and when you called McCoy back down, I knew she had."

"For the record, McCoy said Steiner was out of line."

"I don't suppose Carmichael mentioned that Steiner actually had the chair waiting for me in the transporter room when I arrived—or that he didn't even bother to show up with it."

"Must've slipped her mind."

"I'll do a lot of things for Starfleet—I'll put up with an awful lot in the name of following regulations and getting the job done at all costs—but I won't use a chair again. Not unless I actually needed one."

"And you don't."

"Granted that my body doesn't work perfectly—and, yes, I do fall occasionally, especially on stairs—but if I don't use what I have got, pretty soon I won't have even that."

"You have to push or you never get anywhere." I nod, thinking back to the early days after I lost my vision. McCoy would set a goal for me and I'd work at it—and work—and work—and work—until I'd conquered it, long past the point where Bones would start telling me to give it a rest and come back to it another day. "Most people don't understand that."

"Only a precious few. What about your people?"

"It makes them uncomfortable, but yes. The key to McCoy is being honest. As long as he knows you're telling him the truth when he checks in, he'll keep letting you push."

"Understood." The turbo lift doors slide open and Tucker follows me inside, leaning against the wall of the car for stability. "For the record, I am pushing, but I've pushed harder. I haven't reached my limit yet."

"How close are you?"

"Not as close as you probably think." Then, without prelude, Tucker changes the subject. "Something else is on your mind, Captain. What is it?"

"Sam Carmichael said something else in her message that I wish you'd clarify."

"If I can."

"I don't pay much attention to the rumor mill, but Sam does. Apparently word is that I have powerful friends on the Committee. Is that true?"

Tucker's answer is guarded, almost to the point of being a non-answer. "Everyone on the Committee is powerful. Some are on your side; some are against you. But you already knew that because their preliminary decision came down as an even split. Why? You're not usually one to politic."

"I'm not. I'm concerned that politicking within the Committee might prevent me from being able to earn the captain's chair honestly."

Tucker's voice relaxes. "That sounds more like you. What specifically is on your mind?"

"How many people on the Committee know about your history with the Foscara system?"

"It's mentioned in my record, so I assume all of them. I'm sure it was at least discussed—probably hotly debated, knowing the Committee—but the vote to send me here was unanimous. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking it's extraordinarily convenient that someone with unrecorded knowledge of the Foscara system happens to be on board my ship at just the right moment in time. I don't want to find out that someone stacked the deck in my favor."

"Noted. And if you'll express your concern about it in a captain's log, I will include that with my final report. But in this case I'm not sure that you have anything to be concerned about. Everything I told you, your staff will be able to tell you themselves when you get close enough to run scans."

"And you don't remember anything else?"

"Nothing of any consequence." Tucker follows me out of the turbo lift and a few meters down the corridor to the mess hall. Just inside the doors, he stops to take stock of the situation and ultimately says, "I'm afraid I'm going to need some help."

"That makes two of us. I can't read the food card labels."

"What about your new reading program?"

"Honestly, I hadn't thought of that." The trouble with the reading program is that it involves aiming the camera, and that still involves a fair amount of concentration. "Maybe I'll try it next time. For now, maybe we can trade. What do you need?"

"I can manage the food cards, but I have trouble balancing trays."

"Perfect. I'll make you a deal. You help me pick out a food card that doesn't involve a salad and find us a seat, and I'll carry both of our trays."

Tucker laughs. "Deal. How do you usually manage?"

"Usually I come in with Spock, but if not I just take whatever card I grab and ask the nearest person to point me toward an open seat. You?"

"Fortunately, my wife is an incredible cook and I have the luxury of bringing leftovers to eat in my CO's office most days. He's paralyzed and can't feed himself, so I help with his meals. On the odd occasion when I do eat in the mess hall, I'm usually with someone who can use both hands and then I ask for help, the same as you."

Between selecting food cards and actually retrieving our trays, getting our meal turns out to be a slow proposition. That said, there's something satisfying about not being the recipient of Spock's good nature for once—about getting to actually do something in exchange for my choice of food cards.

"Spock and McCoy have two open seats at their table," Tucker says.

"I'll follow you. Just give me an idea where we're headed."

"How do I—"

"Sorry. I forget." Ordinarily, I'm pretty good about telling people how to give me directions, but Tucker feels so familiar that I tend to forget he doesn't know these things already. "Based on the way we were facing when we walked in, use the face of a clock as a reference."

"Ten o'clock."

Fortunately for me, Tucker takes the straightest route instead of weaving through tables the way Spock does. We're halfway to the table before Bones raises his voice. "Jim!"

I nod, letting Bones know that I heard him, but concentrate on following Tucker through the crowd to the open seats. Based on the direction of McCoy's voice, he and Spock must be sitting opposite one another, so I deposit Tucker's tray on one side and my own on the other. "Thank you, Commodore."

"It worked for both of us." The instant Tucker starts eating, I understand why he chose a sandwich and soup for his meal—he eats one-handed. He couldn't have cut a piece of meat even if he'd wanted to. I hadn't thought about that, but it seemed like second-nature to him. I guess that makes us even.

McCoy nudges my arm. "So, Jim, tell us about you and this Captain Merlo—"

Relaxing into the nuances of our usual mealtime banter, I grin. If he's going to stoop to petty small-town gossip-mongering, he isn't the only one who knows how to play that game—he's just the only one who enjoys playing, I guess. "All right, all right. You want the truth? Fine. I give up."

McCoy chuckles, and the tone of satisfaction seems to be directed across the table at Spock as much as at me. "That's more like it."

"Adora Merlo and I were friends with Sam Carmichael at the Academy—as much as anyone was friends with Sam, anyway. All three of us competed against each other, except sometimes Adora and I would work together. Every now again we even convinced Sam to work with us instead of against us."

"And?"

"And that's it. I told you, Bones—Adora and I are just friends."

Bones grunts, and he sounds disappointed. "Like a sister. Right, you did you say that."

Tucker sounds amused by the entire exchange. "You have a unique way of interacting with your crew, Captain. It's refreshing."

Bones and I both grew up in small towns, so we both know the ins and outs of that way of life. Each starship is its own small town. I was still fairly new to space when I figured that out, and that's when I understood how to command one. "If I had to guess, that's because not too many starship captains grew up in small towns in the middle of nowhere. I figure that gives me a home-court advantage."

"I hadn't thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right. Maybe that explains the other thing I noticed."

"What other thing is that?"

"Commander, your report on the Foscara system—"

Spock's answer is stiff. "Yes, Commodore. You found it deficient?"

"Not at all. In fact, just the opposite—It impressed the heck out of me, especially since you prepared it without having to be asked."

"As Chief Science Officer and as First Officer, it is my duty to have information prepared for the captain when he requires it. Since this is a largely unfamiliar sector, it stood to reason that he would require information prior to our arrival."

"Maybe. Although I've known plenty of very competent section heads who still would've needed to be told. But do you really want to know what impressed me? The fact that you knew he'd done it, Captain."

I open my mouth to answer, only to realize that I have no argument to defend myself with. He's right—I asked Spock to present a report that I never told him I needed, knowing he'd have the information ready.

McCoy grunts. "Happens so often, we're used to it. I didn't think anything of it."

"Nor was there reason for you to think of it, Doctor. As stated, it was only logical for me to prepare information regarding our destination in this situation, as the odds of the captain knowing about the system were quite low."

"And I just assumed that Spock would have the information because he always seems to."

"Both of you work on a very intuitive level. That's a rare kind of partnership, but it's a beautiful thing if you can get to that level. It happens relatively often in the world of musicians—some of the most exciting music is born out of two musicians understanding intuitively where the other is going with a piece—but it's a lot more unusual on a starship." He's quiet long enough to take a bite of his turkey sandwich and wash it down with a spoonful of soup. "Again, this is why the Committee asked for an in-person observation to break the stalemate. Dynamics like this don't show up in after-action reports, but they do paint a very clear picture of the situation here."

A previously unrecognized bit of tension uncoils in my chest, the release of a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "I just hope that the Committee can be made to see what you see, Commodore."

"Convincing the Committee is largely a matter of knowing how to tell the story in such a way that the truth can't be denied. And—as I indicated—both storytelling and picture-painting come naturally to me. I didn't have all the materials I needed when I submitted my report before; I will by the time I go back to present my findings this time."

"I fail to understand the logic of asking you to prepare a report with insufficient data in the first place. Why was an observation not required from the outset?"

"Because I don't think any of us realized that the ship's paperwork output was insufficient. Remember, Commander, this situation is unprecedented; we're all flying by the—" In mid-sentence, Tucker stops, grunts, and reroutes. "Sorry. We're all experimenting with what amount and type of information will be sufficient to do the job. My apologies."

Spock's tone is the one that equates with surprise, the one he usually uses just before he proclaims that something is interesting. "Apologies are unnecessary. If you meant to say that you and the Committee are flying by the seat of your pants, I am familiar with that Human expression—although, admittedly, I do find it somewhat distasteful. I infer that you have some experience working with Vulcans, Commodore. Is that accurate?"

"When they placed me in my current position, Starfleet assigned me a Vulcan aide. We work pretty well together, but I am learning which of my expressions confuse him." Tucker grunts. "Speaking of Lt. Silak, I wonder if you could explain something he does that's puzzled me all these years, Commander."

"I will endeavor to do so."

"My commanding officer is paralyzed, and Silak won't look at either of us. He'll look at our feet, past our heads, or right through us, but he won't make eye contact. We've both tried asking him about it, but all he'll say is that he would prefer not to discuss it. I don't suppose you'd be willing to explain his behavior, would you?"

"Of course." Spock's answer sounds casual enough, but I'm fairly sure it's a ruse. "The description you have given of Lt. Silak's behavior does point toward one common explanation. However, I must caution that my statements will necessarily be imprecise because I do not know the extent of your commanding officer's paralysis."

"Understood. At this point, any insight you can give us will be helpful."

"In Vulcan society, it would be extremely uncommon for men with your conditions to be expected to function in ordinary society. In avoiding eye contact, he is attempting to preserve your dignity in what he perceives to be an illogical situation."

"Which, of course, is itself an affront to Human dignity. We suspected it might be something like that, but the admiral wanted to be sure before we tried to intervene. Thank you very much for your honesty, Commander."

"I am incapable of anything less." That's definitely a lie, but Tucker either buys it—most people do—or he lets it pass. But there's another, more implicit lie being told here, and I'm positive that Tucker doesn't pick up on that one. No matter what Spock's voice says, this whole conversation makes him highly uncomfortable. He'll want to debrief on it later; I'd put a day's wages on it. "May I ask why you and your commanding officer suspected that might be the case?"

"A couple of reasons. One, the admiral has a bit more experience with Vulcans than I do, and he had seen the behavior on a few prior occasions. Two, I've had a lot of contact with the Federation Council as a peripheral part of my position. You might be surprised how often I hear some variation on that theme." Tucker's tone implies a shrug. "Besides, the idea isn't as foreign to Human culture as you might think. I hear it almost as often from Humans as from other species—although not always phrased quite so tactfully. I appreciate that tact, by the way."

"Certainly, Commodore." Apparently in a hurry to move the conversation in a less uncomfortable direction, Spock turns his attention to me. "Before we reach the Foscara system, Captain, I am reminded that our last chess game remains unfinished. Given the state of your pieces, I suspect that it would not take long to complete the game, if you would care to do so."

"The state of my pieces? You're the one who's more than halfway to checkmate. But if you want to get it over with that badly, you're on."

And that settles it. After dinner, our whole convoy heads down to the rec hall, where Spock's and my game still sits, waiting to be finished. In addition to the ship's usual complement of three-dimensional chess sets, Spock and I have our own private set that features a board with cells that have different textures and raised borders and tactually distinguishable game pieces. We sometimes leave it set up in the rec hall when we get interrupted in the middle of a game, as we did this one. Maybe because the board belongs to Spock and me, or maybe just because it's tactually adapted for me, but the crew never touches our in-progress games regardless of how long it takes us to get back to finish them. Once, a game sat half-played like this for an entire solar week before we got around to finishing it.

"All right. Just give me a minute to review exactly what kind of a bind you've gotten yourself into." In fact, a quick glance of all three main boards and all four attack boards reminds me that we're pretty evenly matched. We've played with this set so many times over the last five years that my wooden pieces have started to wear smooth along the tops where I touch them the most. His metal ones, of course, show no signs of wear. "Thank you; I'm ready. I think it was your turn."

I've played Spock enough times that I can gauge his mental state based on how he plays. When we started this game well over 24 hours ago, every move suggested his usual clear-headed rationality. Now, his moves suggest just the opposite. Within half an hour, a full quarter of his remaining pieces sit on my side of the table, and the outcome of the game is decidedly less ambiguous now than when we started.

"Spock, are you sure you wouldn't like to take a rain check on this game? Or shall I just hurry up and put you out of your misery?"

"Misery, as you are well aware, is an emotion to which I am fortunately immune." He moves a piece on the top board, then calls out the move for my benefit. "Your turn, Captain."

"Sorry—my mistake. That miserable wail I'm hearing must be coming from your king. I'll have him mated in three moves."

"I find that extremely unlikely."

I raise one of the attack boards to the top level. "Your turn." Spock usually monitors his internal state well enough to avoid playing when he's this distracted. At the very least, he'll usually accept an offer to postpone when I offer one. The fact that he keeps rebuffing even those says a lot about the state of his head. It's a pity, especially since this could very well be our last game together. As much as I love winning a game against Spock, winning this way is no fun.

Suddenly—a few moves too late—the analytical component of Spock's brain drops back into place and he takes a few minutes to review the board, reaching for and ultimately abandoning several pieces along the way. In the end, he leans back in his chair and says, "Extremely unlikely indeed. It will not take you three moves to place my king in check; you will have it done in two."

I incline my head, acknowledging that he's right. "Sorry. I tried to warn you."

"Indeed." He tips his king over, acknowledging the inevitable because he left himself no way to block the attack. "My apologies."

I push back from the table and motion him toward the door. "Everyone's entitled to an off-night—even you, Spock. Maybe you'd better get some rest."

"It is not sleep that I lack." He pushes back from his side of the table also and stands, collecting the data card he brought to the briefing. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I will be best served at this moment by meditating."

"Of course. And I think I'm going to get some rest myself." Spock and I excuse ourselves from the rec room together as Uhura starts to distract everyone with her singing. His quarters and mine are directly next to one another, so we'd find ourselves making the trip together even if he didn't intend to debrief on the earlier conversation.

All the same, we're in the turbo lift and partway to our quarters when he asks, "Before you retire, Jim, may I trouble you for a few moments?"

"Of course not. I'm expecting you."

"Indeed." His disappointment is blatant. "I regret that Dr. McCoy may also have noticed."

I wave him off. "I'll handle McCoy later; don't worry about it. The conversation regarding Tucker's aide?"

Before he can answer, the lift doors open and he shadows me out of the lift and down the hall to my quarters. He waits to answer until after the doors shut. "I found the conversation quite troubling, although he seemed unfazed by it."

Genuinely wanting to catch a few hours of sleep once we're done talking, I head toward the bed so I can ultimately stretch out. For now, I sit on the end of the mattress, leaving Spock to find his own position. "It sounds like he's used to it."

"Yes, that does seem to be the case."

As usual when we have these conversations, he chooses not look at me. Not knowing what to make of it, I've never commented on it before. But now, given the explanation he handed Tucker, I need to know: "Are you attempting to preserve my dignity?"

"Not yours." His head snaps around to look at me this time. "My own."

"Yours?" Maybe just I'm getting tired, but I wasn't expecting that one.

He drops into the extra chair that sits in the corner of my room, turned so that he appears to be staring into the office. "When we discuss these matters, I feel shame—for my own ignorance, and for the ignorance of my people. It is a most illogical state to find myself in, and yet I find it unavoidable."

"Spock, regardless of whether or not you agree with it, you have no reason to be ashamed of Vulcan culture in this particular matter. And as for yourself—There is no shame in learning to understand another culture's point of view. You're not born knowing everything."

"I do not wish for Commodore Tucker to believe that I share the views of my people."

I would point out that Spock has two people, but—as Tucker noted—the view from both sides is closer than we Humans would like to admit. "So talk to him."

"I had hoped to avoid that. I find these conversations most awkward."

"Most important conversations seem to be." I shrug. "Like it or not, Spock, you're most likely going to spend the rest of your life acting as a liaison between Humans and Vulcans because you're uniquely situated to see both sides with equal clarity. The sooner you make your peace with that role, the better off I think you're going to be."

Instead of answering, he just sits there. But eventually, once I stretch out to let my muscles uncoil against the mattress, he stands. "My apologies for keeping you from your rest."

I wave it off. "Don't apologize. As long as it helped."

He stops just shy of the door. "Indeed. I may find your advice troubling at times, but—as always—it is helpful. It is also deeply valued and appreciated. Sleep well."

* * *

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the long delay between posts. Real life came crashing down on both my beta reader and myself. Now that things are looking up again, I hope to be more regular about updating. Many thanks to all my readers for sticking around!


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: The Original Series_ belongs to CBS, not me.

* * *

"You're very good, Lieutenant."

Scott and McCoy both left shortly after Kirk and Spock, but I couldn't tear myself away from the music. Good live jazz is hard to find these days, and a starship hurtling toward the far reaches of Federation space is the last place I would have ever expected to find it. It hasn't done my body any favors because I can't resist moving with it, but it's gone a long way toward making me feel at home.

"Thank you, Commodore." Lieutenant Uhura beams at me, her eyes twinkling, but I'm sure that has more to do with the exhilaration of performing than my compliment. "But you should really hear when Mr. Spock joins us. He plays the most amazing Vulcan lyre I've ever heard."

"Now that you mention it, I do remember reading something about that in a report a few years back. But I would never have taken him for a musician otherwise."

She laughs. "You wouldn't, would you? But he really is quite good. Maybe you'll get to hear him before you go."

"I'd like that." For now, though, my body has been pushed as far as I dare to push it, especially this close to a potential conflict with Romulans. Given how tired my body is and how long I've been sitting here, it'll take me a minute to find my balance, and Uhura looks like she might feel obligated to stay. I get that a lot. "If you need to go, I'm all right."

"No, sir, that's not why I'm still here. I was just thinking, I noticed you have a pretty mean sense of rhythm yourself."

"Fortunately, rhythm is in the brain." High muscle tone from stiff muscles means that I have less control than I'm used to. I push onto my feet and straighten, only to see myself pitching backward. Jerking my trunk forward again keeps me from toppling back into the chair. "It's just a matter of getting my body to cooperate with my brain. That part is still a work-in-progress."

"The left side seemed to be cooperating. Were you a dancer?"

Uhura's smile and good looks fool you into thinking she's just a pretty face, but there's a sharp eye and an even sharper mind behind them both. It takes a shrewd observer to notice that at least one half of my body still knows what to do with itself, and even keener intellect to connect those observations to my love of jazz and sense of rhythm. "I still am—at least to a degree."

Her smile widens. "I imagine it's something like figuring out what notes you can reach."

The problem for me is that my reach varies based on how tired I am. My right side is ordinarily strong enough these days and provides enough biofeedback to give me decent control over it. But that control always erodes when I'm tired, and sometimes when I'm keyed up, and occasionally when I'm getting sick. Knowing what I can do at any given moment means being intimately connected with how I feel. "That may be a lifetime's work."

"Most worthwhile projects are." She nods at me in the corridor and smiles again, although she's finally starting to look as tired as the rest of us. "Good night, Commodore."

"Good night, Lieutenant." Fortunately, my quarters are just down the hall from a turbo lift, so I don't have far to go before I can rest. I head for the desk chair and ease into it. "Computer, adjust temperature: 90 degrees Fahrenheit. Adjust artificial gravity: 20%."

"Temperature adjusted. Artificial gravity adjusted."

The ability to shed most of my weight in a single instant is one distinct benefit of artificial gravity. As on Earth, I have to wait for the temperature change to take effect. While I'm waiting, I strip down to my black undershirt and open the comm port to make a private call home.

"Hey, stranger." Standing in the kitchen dicing zucchini and yellow squash—it's Saturday brunch back home, so I assume she's making omelets—Alana's smile already looks tired. "How are you holding up?"

Even when it was just a short cargo run to Delta Kappa Six, before the Committee changed its mind, we knew this trip would be a push for me. "I'm sore and my muscles are cramping, but otherwise I'm all right. What about you? It's not even noon yet, and you already look tired."

"Marina and Chris are coming over for brunch, so I had to run the vacuum before I took Nia to class. But I'm all right. I just miss having you here to do the chores and take Nia to class while I cook; it's surprising how much those little things help. I wish I was there to massage your muscles for you. Is there anything you can do for them?"

"I've turned the heat up and the artificial gravity down, so once the room warms up I should start to feel better. I'm going to lay down and rest after we hang up."

"You made it onto the _Enterprise_ all right?"

"Finally. I've never been so happy to get off a ship in my entire life."

"I'm sure." Alana shakes her head. "I still can't believe that doctor wanted you back in a wheelchair. You'd think a doctor, of all people, would understand that you're done with that. I assume things are better on the _Enterprise_?"

I nod. "Of course. The people here are good." A faint, rhythmic clatter in the background catches my ear. "How's Nia?"

"She misses you. We just got back from her dance class."

"I hear her."

Alana sticks her head into the hallway, looking toward the living room where our daughter is playing. "Nia, do you want to say hi to dad?"

Two size-5 taps ball-change most of the way down the hall, only to stop just outside the kitchen door and slide into view. "Dad, Mr. G showed us how to do a two-bar up-the-front time step! Want to see it?"

"Of course, if you can do it without getting in Mom's way."

"Go ahead." Alana compacts herself into the far corner of the kitchen to give Nia more dance floor.

Nia points the camera down so I can see her legs and feet. She's humming the rhythm to herself, hands flirting in and out of the camera's upper range. Her right fist has locked itself around her thumb the way it does when she concentrates. It's still repetitive at this stage, just the three variations Gavin will have showed her in class, but by tomorrow night she'll have come up with half a dozen variations on each of them. She learns quick that way like her mom. She's also slightly obsessive, a trait she gets from her old man.

"That's great, honey—I'm really proud of you. Keep playing with it, but only if you remember to help Mom with the dishes after you eat. Deal?" We make the same deal every Saturday after class.

She bends the camera back up so I can see her face. She's got the same glow Uhura had, brown hair falling out of her ponytail and one hook-style earring half backed out of her left ear. "Deal. When you get back, will you show me yours?"

My left side still functions reasonably well as the tap dancer I used to be, but the lack of fine muscle control on my right side means I have to get creative with how I use it. Even then I hear the difference, but Nia's too fascinated by how I choose my steps to care that they don't always come out clear. When you get right down to it, I guess creativity isn't a bad legacy to leave my daughter. "You know it."

"Thanks, Dad." She grins. "How long before you get to come home?"

"I don't know yet. I have to finish something here first."

"I know; I remember—the man on the news." Whether he realizes it or not, Kirk has been making headlines back home for several years now. The fact that he may not be allowed to keep his command has also been in the news lately. "It's okay. I love you."

She kisses the screen; I plant a kiss on my fingers and touch them to her forehead. "I love you too. I'll call again as soon as I can. Help Uncle Chris this afternoon, and be a good girl for Mom."

"Promise."

She slides out of the kitchen and riff-walks down the hall, and Alana readjusts the camera. "You're going to be gone longer than you expected?"

"I could be. I'm wrapping up a loose end."

"A loose—" She gasps. "Ethan—"

"Don't worry, honey. I'll be fine."

"You'd better be."

"Lightning won't strike twice, Alana. I promise, I'll be fine."

"You said that twelve years ago. Call me every night."

"Or as often as I can. Listen, I was thinking—When I get home, I want to start hiking again."

"Hiking?"

"We haven't done it in ages, Nia's never been, and you and I both used to enjoy it. And I'm going to start taking some of my leave so we can travel; Nia's old enough now to remember and appreciate going off-world. I need to start challenging my body more than I have."

"You think you can?"

"I know I can. A lot of the reason I'm having trouble now isn't that I'm pushing the limits of what I _can_ do, just that I'm pushing the limits of what I _have_ done. I'm not used to working at my full capacity anymore. I've been doing what's easy."

"If you really want to, we'll try." She pushes a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Nia got my feet and her mom's hair—it's always out of place. I happen to think it's cute, but it drives Alana crazy, especially when she's tired. "A family vacation would be nice."

Those dark circles under her eyes worry me. "I'm sorry I'm not there to help."

"Don't be. You are where you need to be, doing what you need to be doing. Just be careful so you come home in one piece."

"Promise." The door chime sounds, and I glance toward it. "I have to go, honey. I love you." I kiss my fingers and touch them to the screen, and she does the same.

"Love you too, Ethan. Call again soon."

"I will." As soon as the call ends, I turn to face the door. "Enter."

The door opens to reveal Commander Spock, looking more uncomfortable than even Silak does on the rare occasion when I can get him to look anywhere near me. This is turning out to be an interesting evening.

* * *

"Is this a convenient time for us to speak, Commodore? If it not, I can return at a later time." The heat radiating through the open doorway surprises me. Although I find it quite hospitable, most Humans find this temperature uncomfortable.

"This is fine. Come in." Commodore Tucker motions for me to come. "Just be careful. I have the artificial gravity lowered quite a bit."

That is no exaggeration. The change in gravity, and therefore weight, is jarring and could have had unanticipated consequences had he not provided a warning. I raise my right eyebrow in response to the conditions.

The commodore laughs. "The lower gravity makes it easier for me to move. I'm letting my muscles rest."

"I see. And the heat also has a therapeutic benefit, I presume? Most Humans would not choose this temperature without receiving some benefit from it."

Another laugh. "Exactly. It helps loosen my muscles. They tend to cramp when I'm either tired or cold."

"I see." The depth of his fatigue is apparent at the physical level, but I sense none of the mental or emotional fatigue that I so often do in Jim. Indeed, he seems quite lively on an internal level. The fact is simply that his body betrays him. In Jim, the problem is opposite: his body serves him, but at a steep cost to his mental and emotional state. "I do not wish to disturb your rest. I merely wished to clarify a point from our earlier conversation."

Commodore Tucker eases onto the side of the bed, then maneuvers his weaker side onto the mattress and stretches out. "You're not disturbing me. I'm wide awake. My internal clock is still set to San Francisco time, which means that it's about eleven o'clock in the morning for me. This just happens to be the only way for my muscles to completely relax." He gestures toward the guest chair in the office. "Have a seat. By 'our earlier conversation,' I assume you're referring to the one about Vulcan views on disability?"

"Affirmative." I wonder if this conversation, and its apparently endless variations, will ever cease to feel tedious. "I merely wished to clarify that while I am familiar with the traditional Vulcan view on that particular subject, I do not share it."

Tucker turns his head to look at me without rising, eyebrows elevated. "So that's what it was."

"Commodore?"

"I knew you looked uncomfortable, but I couldn't decide why. That explains it." He looks back up at the ceiling. Perhaps he is attempting to preserve my dignity? At any rate, the gesture is very much welcomed. He says, "I appreciate the clarification. So how does a Vulcan come to disagree with that particular view? From your mother? I understand that she's Human."

"She is, but we did not have reason to discuss the subject of acquired disability while I was a child. It is—" I shall never cease to find these conversations awkward. "—not a subject which is discussed in Vulcan society unless critically necessary."

"I see. That makes me even more curious how a Vulcan raised in Vulcan society comes to disagree with a view that's so taboo it's not even discussed."

"One comes to disagree with such a view by realizing, through experience, that the belief is fundamentally illogical and not in keeping with other beliefs. You are, I presume, familiar with the Vulcan concept of IDIC—Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations?"

Tucker nods. "Your captain goes blind and takes the opposite tack from what you expected, and you have no choice but to realize how big the word _infinite_ really is. Is that it?"

 _"Spock, I'm sorry to bother you." Jim had stood in the open doorway of my quarters, data cards in hand. "But I can't think of an alternative. I need your help."_

 _These things were, of course, to be expected until the appropriate arrangements could be made for him. My knowledge of Human customs surrounding the acquisition of uncorrectable disability was slim, but logic dictated that there must be a place equipped to deal with the victims. "I had anticipated that that would be the case." By the time Jim appeared in my doorway, I had been anticipating this conversation for the entirety of the 22 minutes and 13 seconds since Dr. McCoy had left him alone in his quarters. "No apology is necessary."_

 _"Thanks."_

 _Letting Jim feel his way back to his quarters, I followed at his shoulder, prepared to assist but ultimately unnecessary. "You appear to be managing remarkably well."_

 _"It isn't as bad as I might have expected." He felt his way to his desk and sat down, adding his handful of data cards to the larger pile cluttering the center of the desk. He picked up the first card his fingers encountered and felt for the data slot with his other hand. "I can find the cards and put them in, but all they bring up are pictures that do me no good. Eventually, of course, I'll need the computer to read them out to me, but I think that should be a simple fix. But I don't need to tell you that; after all, you're the computer expert. In the meantime, I just need your help sorting through all these cards. I'm trying to get organized so things don't spiral too far out of control while I'm trying to get my feet back on the ground."_

 _"Do I understand that you intend to remain here, on board the_ Enterprise _?"_

 _"I'm her captain. Where else would I go?"_

 _"I understood Dr. McCoy to say that there were no artificial vision systems that would be wholly satisfactory, given the condition of your retinas. Has there been a development?"_

 _"No. And since there's no way to reverse the damage, that leaves me no choice but to make the best of what I've got. And I will figure it out; McCoy seems to think my ears and fingers can be trained to kick in quickly. I'll just need some help until then." Unexpectedly, he grinned and waved an arm toward the disorganized pile of data cards. "So what about it? Are you up to the task?"_

"That is—" The memory has left an unexpected aftertaste in my mouth. I attempt to settle my stomach before completing my answer but am unsuccessful. "That is quite an apt description of what happened."

Commodore Tucker's head snaps so quickly toward me, and his eyes narrow so sharply on me, that the motion is momentarily unsettling. His reaction, however, appears to have been borne not of criticism but of concern. He asks, "You okay?"

"Affirmative." The fact that my stomach is still queasy and uncontrollable suggests otherwise. However, his choice of wording leaves the question nebulous enough that my answer is not strictly a lie. I am not in physical jeopardy; I am, therefore, "okay" by at least one measure.

Tucker nods, again looking away from me. He is preserving my dignity; I am quite certain of that now. "Sorry. I didn't mean to take you to that place." He does not explain what he means by _that place_ , nor do I find it necessary to ask. Instead, he says, "The usual view is that disability happens to an individual. It doesn't. It happens to his entire ecosystem."

"That is—" I consider and discard a number of words which, while apt, do not fully capture the unexpected nature of Tucker's statement. "—an interesting observation."

"Everybody thinks to ask the person most directly affected how he's doing. Very few think to ask how the people around him are coping."

"Indeed."

I initiate eye contact; he meets it and nods. "As hard as I know it's been—and I do know that it's been hard—probably always will be at times—you and Captain Kirk have done the right thing by sticking it out." He looks away again, focusing instead on the ceiling above his bed. "You want to know how I know?"

Aside from my crewmates, the experience of adjusting to Jim Kirk's blindness has been a solitary one. The fact is that I am quite curious to hear the perspective of an outside source. "If you would not be troubled by sharing that information, I would very much like to hear it."

"I ran into my old captain in the hallway at Starfleet Medical earlier this month, when I went in for my annual physical. He wouldn't look me in the eye; I barely got him to say hello, never did get him to shake hands. We haven't talked since before the accident."

Until this moment, I have considered the loss of Jim Kirk's eyesight to be a great tragedy to which we are both adjusting. While there remains a sense of regret over the events that occurred, perhaps the real tragedy was averted after all. In the immediate aftermath of the loss, both he and I made a series of decisions that carried us closer together—closer than either of us could have ever anticipated at the outset. Had we made other choices, we both would have suffered a much greater tragedy than simple loss of eyesight. I realize that now. "Commodore, if I may clarify a point?"

I wait for his permission to continue; he gives it with a nod.

"The relationship that you had previously with your captain—"

He answers while still staring at the ceiling. In this case, I believe that he may be attempting to preserve his own dignity rather than mine. Respecting this wish, I look away as well, but not before witnessing the regret in his expression. "He'd been making a lot of mistakes, but we were still friendly."

The tightness in my abdomen loosens and the bile in my stomach settles. "That is—" The depth of my breathing also increases, although I had not previously realized that it was constricted. "—unthinkable."

"According to my CO, disability isn't the real tragedy at all. It's what you make of it that turns it into a tragedy—or not."

"One must learn to draw a distinction between events that are merely unfortunate and those that are genuinely tragic. It seems that your commanding officer possesses an uncommon measure of wisdom in this subject matter." The logic of his perspective is at once simple and flawless: if the acquisition of a disability in some way spurs one toward achievement, then it cannot be a tragedy. For a non-Vulcan to reach that depth of logic regarding a topic so potentially mired in emotion is frankly astonishing. When we reach Earth at the end of this assignment, I should very much like to meet this remarkable individual.

Tucker grins. "You sound like your father."

Although the sudden reference to my father surprises me, it should not. In the mess hall, Tucker mentioned having had frequent contact with the Federation Council, of which my father is a key member. Had I been in a clearer mental state at that time, I would likely have inferred that he had spoken with my father on occasion. "Given the genetic similarity between us and our common culture, some resemblance is to be expected."

"You say that as if sounding like your father is a bad thing. He's one of the more open-minded people on the Council. He looks me in the eye and treats me with respect; that's more than I can say for most of the other councilmembers and about three-quarters of Starfleet. There are worse people you could sound like."

"That is fortunate, since I have little choice in the matter." Now that my tension is gone, it seems to have left my body in a depleted state. I repress the need to yawn, at least until I reach my quarters, and prepare an exit. "Commodore, I am most grateful for your time and for sharing your experiences with me. I have found them both extremely helpful."

He studies me, then nods. "Glad I could help."


End file.
